


Sailing Over the Wine-dark Sea

by ekbirch



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-12 22:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18019922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekbirch/pseuds/ekbirch
Summary: She looks out over the sea, at the ships and the waves and the distant horizon, as Quincy takes a deep, ragged breath, practically quivering with indignation. “Don't think this is over, Miss Swann,” he growls. From him, the name sounds like an oath, a curse. “You're going to regret refusing me. You're going to regret it very much.”Elizabeth whirls around to face Quincy so abruptly he shifts back, surprise flickering in his gaze. “Tread carefully,” she says, blood thundering in her veins. “Swanns do not take threats lightly.”Quincy steps forward, forcing Elizabeth to tip her head up to stare him in the eye. “Neither do I.”(Or: Three months after the events of Curse of the Black Pearl, an English viscount arrives in Port Royal with a single objective: Win the heart of Elizabeth Swann at any cost. Even if it means eliminating the one with which it truly lies.)





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wordsmith316](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsmith316/gifts).



> Also dedicated to the whole Fish Mafia, without whom this never would have been written.

**Part One**

_But the queen—too long she has suffered the pain of love,_

_Hour by hour nursing the wound with her lifeblood,_

_Consumed by the fire buried in her heart_

_His looks, his words, they pierce her heart and cling—_

_No peace, no rest for her body, love will give her none_

\- Virgil, _The Aeneid_

* * *

 

 **Lord Oliver Quincy, 3 rd Viscount of Avonshire**, arrives in Port Royal a sunny afternoon in December. Voyaged all the way from England, Father tells her, as if Elizabeth hadn’t lived there eight years of her life. Elizabeth cares not for the pleasantries and affairs of the English court, but her father does, if only out of a sense of duty rather than personal conviction.

Thus, they greet Lord Quincy as he strides down the gangplank of his ship—a sleek little schooner named _Victorious_ —and walks down the docks toward them, swinging an ivory walking stick as he goes. Oddly enough, the gaggle of personnel Elizabeth is accustomed to seeing attend men of Quincy’s standing is absent, replaced by a pair of burly sailors who flank their employer like guard dogs. Standing between them, Quincy seems distinctly out of place in his purple justaucorps and fine leather shoes.

“Governor Swann,” the viscount says, doffing his hat in a magnanimous bow before them. “It is an honour to finally meet you.”

“Please, Lord Quincy, you’re too kind,” Father begins graciously, but the viscount has already moved on. Elizabeth barely has time to proffer her hand before Quincy seizes it and stoops to bestow a kiss. His hand is smooth and pale—indications of a wealthy gentleman unacquainted with hard labour.

“And you must be Miss Elizabeth Swann,” he purrs. His eyes pale blue eyes glitter beneath his tricorne. “In all my travels, never have I beheld a woman with such breathtaking beauty as yours.”

Discomfort squirms in Elizabeth’s belly at the viscount’s touch, but she has had too much experience with ambitious sycophants to let this one’s fawning unnerve her. So she merely offers a courteous smile and says, “You flatter me, Lord Quincy.”

“It is true, all the same,” the viscount replies. His gaze never leaves her face.

Elizabeth’s hand, still enveloped in his, begins to sweat.

“I trust the reason for your visit to Port Royal is an amicable one?” Father enquires, saving Elizabeth from having to respond.

“Business matters, I’m afraid,” Quincy replies. Elizabeth takes the distraction as an opportunity to shift her hand just enough to alert the viscount of its current location. Blessedly, he senses the motion and releases her hand, masking the sudden movement by tugging primly at his justaucorps. “When my father died, the role of principal organiser of the company was left to me. Time has flown by so quickly since then; I can hardly believe it’s been six months since his passing.”

“You have my deepest condolences,” Father says sympathetically. “He was good friend and an even better man. I received the news of his passing only a month ago, or I would have sailed to London to pay my respects.”  

“His death was a blow to everyone,” Quincy says softly. “The company in particular.”

“If you should need anything at all,” Father starts, “I am more than willing to—”

“No!” Quincy cuts in, his unctuous tone cut away by an abrupt harshness.

Elizabeth blinks, startled.

Father’s eyebrows shoot up. “I meant no offense, Lord Quincy.”

As if remembering himself, Quincy inhales deeply and clasps his hands in front of him, docile mask slipped back into place. “Forgive me, Governor Swann. It seems the stress of handling the company on my own has taken its toll.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Father says, waving a dismissive hand. “Running a merchant business is no easy task. Perhaps…perhaps a meal with my daughter and I would help make your stay more bearable?”

Elizabeth casts a sharp glance at her father, which he archly ignores.

Quincy shakes his head. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“I insist,” Father interjects, extending an arm in a gesture of camaraderie. “It would be an honour to dine with the son of Lord Oliver Quincy, God rest his soul.”

Lord Quincy flashes a smile of which Captain Jack Sparrow himself would be proud. “If you insist,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of disappointing such a dear friend of my father.”

His gaze slides to Elizabeth, and it lingers long enough to make Elizabeth uncomfortable. Then Father sweeps him away, eager to begin discussion regarding current affairs in England and the state of Quincy’s business.

Elizabeth waits a moment before following, a chill she can’t quite blame on the brisk sea air racing across her flesh.

***

That night, dinner at the Swann Mansion subdued. Lord Quincy maintains a constant stream of chatter, relieving Elizabeth of the responsibility of making small talk herself. He and Father discuss typical suppertime topics—politics, economics, business—and for some time, Elizabeth is content to sit quietly and eat her dinner. She has no qualms about chiming in, but Elizabeth learned long ago that listening gleaned nearly as much information as asking questions. So she is silent. She listens and she learns.

Then Quincy makes a comment that makes her heart skip a beat.

“Elizabeth has indeed grown into a fine young woman. It’s a pity her connection with the former commodore Norrington was so woefully ended.”

“James Norrington is a good man,” Father replies. “His presence here in Port Royal is deeply missed.”

The viscount swirls the wine in his glass, sustaining an air of careful nonchalance. “Could I be so bold as to ask what prompted the sudden change of heart?”

“It wasn’t a good match, I suppose,” Elizabeth jumps in, ignoring the cautionary glance from her father. “His heart lead him in one direction, mine in another.”  
“Capricious are the whims of the heart,” Quincy muses, setting his glass down with a muffled clunk. “So capricious as to deny any man a chance to win it?”

“I assure you, terminating the engagement was an entirely mutual agreement,” Elizabeth says, hands clenched beneath the table. “We bear each other no ill will.”

“It’s fortunate for you Mr. Norrington was so understanding. Not many men would take such a rejection so amicably.” Quincy flashes her a simper over his roast beef, almost daring her to give him a piece of her mind.

Elizabeth inhales, about to do just that, when Father jumps in.

“Indeed,” he says. “Both of us are grateful for Mr. Norrington’s magninimity.”

Something about the way Quincy stares at her tells Elizabeth he would’ve handled the matter quite differently. An uncomfortable silence descends over the table, but Elizabeth feels no obligation to fill it. Unfortunately, it seems Quincy does.

“Miss Swann”—he leans forward, and Elizabeth catches a whiff of his orange-scented wig powder—"I wondered if you might be willing to accompany me on an excursion about Port Royal tomorrow afternoon.”

For a brief moment, Elizabeth is struck speechless. Of all the men who have called on Elizabeth in hopes of becoming her suitor, Quincy has to be the most forward. Certainly no one has made advances this quickly before.

“Lord Quincy,” she begins, smoothing the napkin draped over her lap, “you are an admirable man, I’m sure. But you are mistaken in thinking I—”

“Ah, Elizabeth would love to!” Father interjects loudly. Once again, Elizabeth shoots him an indignant flare. “Tomorrow afternoon, then?”

“If not sooner,” Quincy replies, and his saccharine grin widens.

Elizabeth barely manages to reciprocate with a half-hearted smile of her own. She swallows down her displeasure with a copious gulp of wine.

Quincy has already made arrangements concerning a temporary residence in Port Royal. Elizabeth is glad, too, because she wouldn’t put it past her father to offer him a room in the mansion. He retires to his own dwelling soon after supper to allow for an early start the next morning. Elizabeth can tell Father wants to speak with her, but the sentiment isn’t reciprocated. Using weariness as an excuse, she retreats to her chambers as soon as the meal has finished, determined to remain there for the rest of the evening.

***

The next morning, Elizabeth rises before the sun, slips into a stolen pair of trousers and a loose-fitting shirt, and slips into town to find Will.

Port Royal is quiet as she jogs through its streets at a steady pace, making a beeline for the forge. The heavens are just light enough for her to move without a lantern, most of the town’s buildings still shrouded in darkness. Nonetheless, Elizabeth knows the streets of Port Royal as well as she knows herself. She arrives at the forge in no time, barely winded by the short journey.

The smell of soot, dust, and metal—the smell of Will—fills her nose as she slips through the door, careful to shut it softly behind her. Even dressed in his customary shirt, jerkin, and trousers, he looks finer than anyone has any right to at this hour.

“Good morning, Miss Swann.” Will grins and sets aside whatever project he’s working on. “I mean, Elizabeth,” he amends, but Elizabeth scarcely hears him, because she’s striding across the room, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissing him like he’s a soldier come home from the war and she his long-neglected wife.

Will starts, tensing under her touch, but quickly melts into her embrace to reciprocate properly. This is an improvement upon his initial reaction to shy away, glancing about like a naughty schoolboy afraid of being caught by his teacher. Here and now, while the shadows of night still cling to them, while they are tucked away in the corner of the smithy, where the sun can shine no light upon their deeds, he is bolder. Elizabeth is ridiculously glad for it.

“Good morning, Mr. Turner,” Elizabeth says breathlessly. Just the sight of him makes her smile wider than she has since…well, since the last time she saw him.

He chuckles and leans back, though he doesn’t release her from his arms. His deep brown eyes are warm and gentle in the dawn. “What’s the occasion?” he asks, voice husky and brimming with a smile.

“Oh, nothing,” Elizabeth replies lightly, smoothing the front of his jerkin simply for lack of something better to do. “I’m just glad to see you, is all.”

Will cocks his head. A strand of dark hair falls across his brow. “Glad to see me? It’s not been three days since we last met.”

Elizabeth reaches up and brushes the hair away from his face. A mellow, golden contentment laps against the shores of her heart, filling her a sense of peace she hasn’t enjoyed since before Quincy arrived. “Yes, and it was far too long to be away.”

This time, Will leans in first, bestowing a sweet, fleeting kiss Elizabeth happily returns. When they part, Elizabeth allows herself a rare moment to admire him openly, to gaze at the angle of his jaw, the depth of his eyes, the curves of his mouth. Forget the viscount, Elizabeth thinks. The king of England in all his splendor cannot compare to what stands before her now.    

“Are you ready for another lesson?” he asks, lips barely a breath away from hers.

Elizabeth’s raises a brow, a playful grin spreading across her face. “Are you?”

Will releases her (Elizabeth mourns the loss of his closeness only a brief moment) and strides over to a set of familiar swords lying on the workbench behind him. With expert ease, he takes her sword and flips it so the hilt extends toward her, long fingers deftly gripping the blade.

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

***

When Elizabeth had first expressed serious interest in swordsmanship, Will bypassed the more elegant dueling swords and selected a small cutlass, overlooked by others because of its diminutive size, with which Elizabeth could train. _If it’s pirates you’re worried about_ , he told her, _you might as well learn to fight with one of their weapons_.

Young Elizabeth’s interest in swordplay arose mostly from its association with piracy, partly because it was both an engaging and useful hobby, and partly because learning it meant she could spend more time with Will. After the incident involving Barbossa and Isla de Muerta, however, Elizabeth began to understand just how valuable the skill really was. Much to the chagrin of her father, Elizabeth insisted Will increase the frequency and intensity of her lessons, encouraging him to challenge her more each session.   

As youth, Will and Elizabeth would spend their practice sessions chasing each other through the streets of Port Royal, treating swordplay more as a game than a deadly discipline. At the time, Will himself wasn’t yet proficient, but his gender and occupation provided him ample opportunity to hone his ability with the soldiers posted in town. Elizabeth spent what was probably an indecent amount of time studying Will as he fenced with the guards at the barracks, even going so far as to take notes for later application.

As time passed, Elizabeth’s father, noticing Port Royal’s gossip flourishing alongside his daughter, relegated their sessions to the spacious courtyard behind the mansion. By stashing his child away, he quelled the suggestive rumors and created an environment in which he could closely supervise Elizabeth and her young instructor. Eventually, even the courtyard meetings were banned due to their being “an unbecoming activity for a lady of stature.” Henceforth, Elizabeth was forced to practice swordplay in secret.

Since Isla de Muerta, however, Father’s stance against Elizabeth’s fencing has softened enough for her to stretch the limits of his previously unyielding decree. Over the past few months, Elizabeth has come to the forge to meet with Will at least once a week, though she is careful to steal away only in the moments she will go entirely unmissed.

She is glad now is one of those moments.

The forge isn’t nearly as spacious as the manor’s courtyard, nor as well-lit as the out of doors, but Elizabeth would take it over constant paternal observation any day. No one comes to the forge at sunrise, not even Will’s master and Port Royal’s resident drunkard, John Brown, whose alcoholic tendencies keep him from his workstead early in the mornings. His absence leaves the smithy free for Elizabeth and Will to use. And use it they do.

Back and forth they duel, moving together as though caught up in a deadly dance, blades clashing, feet shifting, breaths coming quick and short as each combatant pursues victory with the ardent intensity of a wildfire. Three months ago, Will wouldn’t have dared fight so vehemently. It took weeks of encouragement (and more than one smart rap with a blade) for him to begin to test Elizabeth at the extremity she desired.

Now, Will smirks as he disarms her with a swift flick of the wrist, sending her weapon clattering to the ground.

“Your form is good,” he says as Elizabeth picks up her blade, panting harder than she’d care to admit. “But you become brash, leave your left side unprotected.”

Elizabeth brushes loose strands of hair out of her eyes. “That’s what you are for, is it not? Let’s start again.”

This time, Elizabeth pays extra heed to Will’s advice, careful not to overextend herself or focus too hard on one aspect of the duel while ignoring another. She’s pleased to see she isn’t the only one perspiring; Will has worked up quite a sweat trying to best her, which is more than she could say when they first began fencing.

Triumph bursts in Elizabeth’s chest as she gains ground, steadily pushing Will toward the wall next to the hearth. His expression turns to a grimace of concentration as he springs forward, trying to disarm her with the same movement he used earlier. Elizabeth is ready for it. Before his blade connects with hers, she yanks her sword back, rotates the blade to gain momentum, and lunges in for the finishing blow.

Faster than she can react, Will sweeps his sword across himself and raps the flat of his blade on Elizabeth’s fingers. Sharp pain explodes in Elizabeth’s right hand, and her fingers spasm reflexively. Once again, the cutlass drops from her grip.

Wheezing an unladylike curse, Elizabeth dives forward to snatch her sword from the dirt. But Will catches hold of her forearm, twists her around, and pins her against him. Elizabeth can’t see his face, but she can feel his right arm cross over her chest and the cold kiss of steel against her throat, the flat of his cutlass resting against her skin. More than that, more than anything else, she can feel Will against her back, chest heaving with exertion.

“Defeated again, Miss Swann,” he pants victoriously. His breath is hot against her neck.

A grunt of frustration escapes Elizabeth, who, in a fit of petulant rage, drives her elbow into Will’s midriff. A huff of air escapes him and his grip on his sword loosens, allowing Elizabeth to knock the hilt from his hand. Then he stumbles, and Elizabeth is shoving him back, back, back until he hits the wall with a muffled thud. Elizabeth presses him there, arm braced against his throat.

Then she’s kissing him with the force of a hurricane, eyes closed, fingers tangled in his hair, body crushed against his as though melded there with a hot iron. There is nothing proper or neat about this, their jumble of lips and limbs and hair and bodies. This is messy and wild and ruinous. This is calamity; this is what happens when storms collide. Elizabeth is caught up in Will’s tempest, giddy and desperate and unrestrained. She would happily drown in his embrace.

Elizabeth gasps as Will pulls away, grasps her waist, and pivots them around as if they are dancing. Her back strikes the wall with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs, but she doesn’t mind in the slightest.

“Will,” she laughs breathlessly.

He grins and dips his head to kiss her again.

A rap at the door snaps Elizabeth from her euphoria, dropping her back down to earth with an unpleasant jolt.

She stifles a groan as an even more unpleasant voice filters through the door.

“Hello? Is anyone here? Is a Miss Elizabeth Swann in there?”

Elizabeth claps a hand over Will’s mouth. The bewilderment creasing his features would be comical if not for their current situation. “It’s Lord Quincy,” she whispers urgently. “The viscount.”

Will’s eyes widen, then narrow as another series of vicious knocks rattle the door.

“Miss Swann? Your father told me you’d be here. He mentioned something about lessons, though I can’t imagine what in…”

There goes any change of simply waiting until he leaves. Elizabeth peels herself off the wall and brushes dust and straw from her clothes, silently cursing her father’s loose tongue.

Before Elizabeth can persuade him otherwise, Will bounds over to the door, unlocks it, and flings it open. He’s a mess—sticky, dishevelled, streaked with dirt—and knowing what she does, Elizabeth doesn’t expect Quincy to be merciful in his conduct.

“Ah.” Elizabeth can imagine the viscount’s face before she sees it. Once she does lay her eyes on him, she acutely wishes she hadn’t. Just a glimpse of him makes her toes curl with distaste. His face reminds Elizabeth of a lump of raw pastry dough—the chief difference being that pastry is something in which Elizabeth might actually have interest. He is dressed to the nines in a richly embroidered emerald justaucorps, cream-coloured breeches, and a pair of leather riding boots. His smile turns frosty as he looks Will up and down, holding his walking stick between them like a shield. “Miss Swann. Governor Swann told me you’d be here.”

“He was correct,” Will replies evenly. Anyone but Elizabeth would be fooled by his calm demeanour, cultivated over years of coping with the more pretentious of the upper class.

“Lord Quincy!” Elizabeth says, face flushing when her voice comes out a hoarse squeak. She clears her throat, willing her traitorous blush to disappear. Will resists as she tries to push him aside, but she manoeuvres around him anyway. She touches the palm of her hand against his back in an attempt to reassure him. “Will has been giving me fencing lessons.”

Quincy takes in her mussed appearance with a blatantly critical eye. Elizabeth couldn’t care less; however, she does care about Will—or rather, she cares about the obvious scowl forming on his face as he watches Quincy perform his appraisal. “Yes,” Quincy finally says. His gaze returns to Elizabeth’s face, nose wrinkled with obvious contempt. “I recall your father saying something about fencing, though I was hardly inclined to believe him. Swordplay is hardly an appropriate hobby for a lady of breeding, don’t you think?”

“I think fencing is a noble art—good for anyone, man or woman,” Elizabeth replies, lifting her chin defensively. “I am fortunate to have such a capable instructor as Will.”

Quincy’s lip curls as his gaze flickers between Will and Elizabeth. “Indeed.”

“What is your purpose here, Lord Quincy?” Elizabeth asks. The question comes out sharper than she intended, but she can’t quite bring herself to care. The way Quincy sizes up Will—like he’s a rat scurrying about the bilge of his schooner—makes Elizabeth’s blood boil. “Surely it isn’t to offer me advice during my lesson.”

The viscount blinks. “Of course not.” He draws himself up, giving Elizabeth an indulgent smile. “I finished the day’s business earlier than expected. I am ready to begin our excursion together.”

“Oh.”

Quincy raises a brow. “Unless you had other plans for the day?”

Elizabeth privately thinks it couldn’t be more obvious that, as a matter of fact, yes, she does have other plans for the day. But on the other hand, she has no desire for Quincy to complain to her father. “No, I suppose not,” she says, feeling rather like a scolded child. “I would have to go back to the mansion to change clothes…”

“It’s no matter,” Quincy assures her. He moves from the entrance of the smithy to allow Elizabeth an egress. “I am more than willing to wait.”

Elizabeth shoots a quick glance at Will. He is silent, but his expression tells Elizabeth everything she needs to know. “Very well, then,” she concedes. For her father’s sake, she will humor Oliver Quincy. Though she declines to reciprocate his simper as she adds: “I will meet you at the front gates of the governor’s mansion in one hour.”

***

Admittedly, her first outing with Quincy isn’t the most terrible thing to ever happen to her. He is polite and tries not to be overtly forward in his advances, though Elizabeth can hardly thank him for it, seeing as she never invited them in the first place. For most of her life, she had James Norrington to chase any potential suitors away. Now, the task is left to her. She is careful to maintain boundaries and establish principles early on to ensure Quincy won’t attempt anything disgraceful—which, much to her relief, he doesn’t. However, after three excursions in as many days, it’s obvious the viscount’s patience is wearing thin. Elizabeth prepares herself for the worst.

Lord Quincy proposes to her on their fourth outing, about one week following his arrival in Port Royal. Elizabeth is expecting that. However, she doesn't expect it to occur in the same place James Norrington proposed so many weeks ago. Be that as it may, none of the fondness Elizabeth harboured for the former commodore is present here. For once, Elizabeth is glad she took the time to dress in formal attire for this outing; she wears her gown like armor, cloth and jewels a shield, a throne. She faces Quincy, fingers entwined over her stomach, chin held high, holding his eager gaze as he speaks: 

“Miss Swann, I know this is all very sudden. But I believe it will work out, given some time. I’d like to make a proposal. Marry me, and become the happiest woman alive.” Quincy flashes her a hopeful grin before adding, “Of course, it doesn’t have to be right away. We can wait a month, a year if you wish. But—” 

“Why, Lord Quincy?” Elizabeth knows it’s impolite to interrupt, but she must know. “Why me?”

Quincy’s brow furrows with bewilderment. “Be-because you’re beautiful of course. And intelligent and loving and kind . . .”

“You are a viscount,” Elizabeth points out. “Surely you could have any wealthy Englishwoman as your bride.”

“But I want you, Elizabeth!” Quincy rushes forward and tries to take her hands. When Elizabeth doesn’t unfold them, he places his hands over hers. “You and only you.”  

Gently but deliberately, Elizabeth pulls away, letting Quincy’s hands fall to his sides. “I'm flattered, Lord Quincy, but I'm afraid I cannot accept your offer. “

Silence. Quincy just stares at her as though struck dumb. “You jest, surely,” Quincy says, his tone forcibly light.

“I wouldn't jest about something as serious as this,” Elizabeth replies. “I'm sorry, Oliver. I cannot—I will not—court you.” She holds her breath, waiting, watching Quincy’s eyes search her own. She can pinpoint the exact moment he comes to a conclusion; it's as definite and visible as the rising of the sun.

“The Turner boy really has enchanted you,” he murmurs, brows furrowed. “When your father told me you had set your sights on the--the village blacksmith, I assumed you coquettish—perhaps a bit naïve—but never insane. Only a madwoman would turn down a proposal from a viscount. “

“I would do it again,” Elizabeth replies. “Just as I rejected Commodore Norrington.” _A man far more honourable than you_.

“Foolish girl,” Quincy snarls, anger flaring in his eyes. He towers over her, ever the wrathful aristocrat, but Elizabeth is not fazed. She has faced down pirates, both living and dead, and emerged victorious. Surely she can do the same with this spoiled nobleman. “That whelp is nothing—a penniless commoner. What do you think you'll gain by marrying him? Contentment? Love? Those are things of fairytales, Elizabeth. They are for silly little girls. Not a grown woman. Not the daughter of a governor. It's time for you to grow up and face reality.”

“If that is the case,” Elizabeth says, her tone like stone, like ice, “I will remain a silly little girl forever, happily married to the man I love. And you, Viscount, shall languish in your manor, a wifeless, miserable wretch until the day you die.” Quincy’s pasty face flushes scarlet under his tricorne, but Elizabeth can't bring herself to feel sorry for him. Not after what he said about Will. As she turns back toward the bay, she adds, “And it's _Miss Swann_ to you.“

She looks out over the sea, at the ships and the waves and the distant horizon, as Quincy takes a deep, ragged breath, practically quivering with indignation. “Don't think this is over, Miss Swann,” he growls. From him, the name sounds like an oath, a curse. “You're going to regret refusing me. You're going to regret it very much.”

Elizabeth whirls around to face Quincy so abruptly he shifts back, surprise flickering in his gaze. “Tread carefully,” she says, blood thundering in her veins. “Swanns do not take threats lightly.”

Quincy steps forward, forcing Elizabeth to tip her head up to stare him in the eye. “Neither do I.”

Even as Elizabeth stalks from the balcony with her head held high, she can feel his gaze piercing straight through her, keen and deadly as a soldier's sword.

***

Evidently guilt outweighs any scruples her father has regarding Elizabeth’s privacy, because he pays a visit to her boudoir that evening. He stands several paces away as the Estrella tugs the pins and combs from Elizabeth's elaborate coiffure, always on the verge of saying something but never quite getting it out. Sensing that a delicate topic is about to be broached, Elizabeth dismisses Estrella and starts unraveling the tresses herself. The moment Estrella exits the room, Father begins to speak in cautious, almost timid voice:

“So…how was your day?”

Elizabeth pointedly avoids her father’s earnest stare, concentrating intently on a particularly troublesome pin knotted in her tresses. “It went well enough.”

“He’s a businessman, you know,” Father says, clasping his hands over his midsection. “When I knew him in London, his father was quite successful.”

“Mhm.”

“Elizabeth, Oliver Quincy has asked my permission to seek your hand.”

Elizabeth whips around, yanking the pin from her hair with enough force to rip a few strands from her scalp. “What did you tell him?”

The look on her face must display her sentiments toward the notion precisely, because Father raises his hands in a placating gesture. “I told him you are currently uninterested in finding a husband, and will remain that way for the foreseeable future.”

“Did you tell him about Will?” Father doesn’t have to reply for Elizabeth to know the answer.

“Father!”

Father inhales a long-suffering breath. “Elizabeth, my dear, it’s more complicated than you think.”

Jaw clenched, Elizabeth turns back to face the mirror and seizes her hairbrush. “No, I don’t believe it is. I love Will, and he loves me. What’s so complicated about that?”

“People are beginning to talk.” Father edges closer, wringing his hands. “There are rumors floating about regarding your association with Mr. Turner. Rumors wondering if perhaps his intentions toward you are not altogether honourable.”

“Honourable?” Elizabeth echoes incredulously. “Did they happen to forget Will risked life and limb to save me from Barbossa?”

“His actions were indeed noble,” Father admits. “And I will be forever grateful. But you must remember, dear—he is a blacksmith.”

“Let them talk,” Elizabeth snaps, wrenching the brush through a particularly snarled lock of hair. “What goes on between me and Will doesn’t concern them.”

Father sighs, brow creased with sympathy. “Actually, it does.”

Elizabeth sets down her brush and closes her eyes, a taste like vinegar souring her mouth.

“Elizabeth, haven’t we discussed this enough already? I was appointed governor of Port Royal, and as such I have certain duties, certain expectations to fulfill. And you…” Father lets out a long breath. “As the governor’s daughter, every decision you make is judged by not only the people of Port Royal, but also by those across the sea.”

She is aware of her father’s closeness behind her, but she ignores him. With a forlorn sigh, she opens her eyes and stares at her reflection in the mirror. She sees nothing. She feels everything.

She had thought being kidnapped and nearly killed by pirates would more than sate her thirst for adventure—and for a while, it did. But inevitably, the familiar cage of privilege and responsibility descended once again, trapping her behind invisible bars. Elizabeth fights it, she fights with all she has. But living as she does, it’s difficult not to simply give in to the pressure nearly all of her peers place upon her.  Each day, the pressure tightens like a cinched corset, so constricting she can hardly breathe. Though Elizabeth is loath to make the comparison, it’s almost as though she’s back on the Black Pearl, the coveted prisoner of Captain Barbossa.

Something dark and heavy and familiar tugs from deep within Elizabeth’s chest like an ache, insisting upon her attention after being ignored or repressed for so many weeks. Before, she tried to drive the sensation away, hoping it would disappear with time. It has not. If anything, it’s only grown, a festering wound in dire need of remedy. And now, Elizabeth must confront it, lest she be crushed under its unbearable weight. This inexplicable melancholy, this ineffable hollow filling her soul—it’s longing, Elizabeth knows, accepts. Fathomless, unabated longing.

She longs to be at sea again, to feel the rock of the ship beneath her feet, to inhale the briny sea air, to taste the salt of it on her tongue. She longs to hear the rush of wind in her ears as she sails over the open sea with nothing but the horizon and endless possibility in sight. Most of all, she longs for freedom—the liberty to be who she wants, who she is, without consequence. After getting a taste of it, there’s no going back. That knowledge tastes of absinthe and iron in her mouth, ceaseless and indelible. But what’s even worse is the fear—the cold, constant fear—that she will never live true freedom again. 

“Elizabeth—this is our second chance.”

She falls back into the present, regarding her father with pursed lips. “At what exactly?”

Father makes an expansive gesture. “At redemption, my girl! At prestige and influence. At a life free of trials or worries.” He inhales a deep breath, tugging anxiously at his ruffled collar. “After you rejected James Norrington, I thought we were doomed, but now . . . Elizabeth, look at me.”

Reluctantly, Elizabeth sets her brush aside and shifts to face her father. He takes Elizabeth's hands in his own, and suddenly she is eleven years old again, already burdened by the demands and obligations of a member of the British gentry. “Lord Quincy’s father—he was a good man. Surely his son is the same.”

“His attitude toward Will would suggest otherwise,” Elizabeth retorts, reflexively tightening her grip on Father’s hands. “Did you know he would propose to me?”

Father winces. “He…suggested it, yes.”

“And you gave him your blessing?”

Father brings her hands to his chest. “You are my daughter. I only want what's best for you!”

 Elizabeth rises and finds herself standing much taller than she had at eleven. She smiles in spite of herself, squeezing Father's hands with a steadfast assurance. “Father, Will makes me happy. That is what's best for me.” 

The corners of Father's mouth stretch up in a soft smile. His face is creased with countless wrinkles, for which Elizabeth loves him all the more. “You're sure, then?” he asks. “I couldn't bear to see you wasted away, crushed by regret as so many others have been.”

Elizabeth lifts her chin, a stillness, a surety deeper than the sea washing over her. “I've never been so certain of anything in my life. Will and I—we're meant to be together. I can't explain it, but I know it. I know.” She looks down, a faint blush creeping up her face. “You must think me foolish.”

“No.” Father's hand cups her cheek and lifts her face. “Not foolish. Just very much in love.”

Elizabeth’s smile widens, fondness for her father welling up inside her like a spring. Despite his worries and misgivings, Father would support her. Excluding maybe Will, Elizabeth couldn't ask for a better man to stand by her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments/kudos if you liked! The next chapter should be posted by this coming Sunday (March 17th).


	2. Part II

**Part Two**

_And as she looked about, she did behold_

_How over that same door was likewise writ,_

Be bold, be bold, _and everywhere_ Be bold _,_

_That much she mused, yet could not construe it_

_By any riddling skill or common wit._

_At last she spied at that room's upper end_

_Another iron door, on which was writ,_

Be not too bold _._

\- Edmund Spenser, _The Faerie Queene_

* * *

 

 **A subtle rap at the** door startles Will from his work.

 _Elizabeth_? he can’t help but wonder. It would be strange for her to visit so late at night—especially since she already dined with him earlier that night—but she’s done stranger things.

He drops the rapier he’d been hammering out into a bucket of water, pulls off his gloves, and tosses them onto the workbench. Excitement quickens is pace as he strides toward the door, instinctively smoothing down his hair and wiping his hands on his apron as he goes. Elizabeth laughs whenever she catches him trying to tidy himself up, but it’s a hard habit to break even now, more than three months after he officially began courting her. Courting Elizabeth Swann. He can still hardly believe he’s not dreaming.

When he opens the door, he definitely thinks he’s dreaming.

Two men wearing shabby, unwashed clothes and identical scowls stand at the door.

“Are you Will Turner?” one of the men enquires in a broad Scottish accent.

“I am,” Will replies cautiously. What could any client possibly want this late at night?

No sooner have the words left his mouth than the Scotsman pulls a pistol from his belt and points it at Will.

“Hands above your head.”

His command is a bolt of lightning. It shoots down Will’s spine numbing his brain, dousing his skin with equal parts ice and fire. Slowly, he does as the man has ordered.

The other man—the one bearing an anchor tattoo on his forearm—seizes Will’s arms and spins him around. The rough scratch of rope against his wrists sparks fear in Will’s chest and he struggles, tearing himself out of the man’s grip. Then the cold metal of a pistol against his spine stops him cold.

“That’s right, Turner,” the Scotsman growls. “Behave yourself and nobody has to get hurt.”

Will forces himself to remain still, quelling the tempest brewing in his veins, as the tattooed man binds his hands with the expertise of someone whose life revolves around using rope. The tattooed man, at the very least, is a sailor, Will decides.

The Scotsman gestures toward the forge with his pistol, finger still resting on the trigger. “After you.”

Will walks unhurriedly back into the smithy, the two men following close behind. The sailor stands guard at the door. The Scotsman gestures at the chair shoved halfway beneath the workbench.

“Take a seat.”

Again, Will sees no choice but to comply. He lowers himself onto the chair, sitting on the very edge of the seat as though poised for flight. Then the sailor opens the door, and another man walks in, swinging an ivory-handled cane.

Will shoots to his feet, blood roaring in his ears. Heavy hands clamp down on his shoulders, pushing him down.

“You,” Will snarls.

Oliver Quincy ignores him. Instead, he rests his sword against the wall next to the smithy’s entrance and meanders over to one of the racks supporting a variety of Will’s swords.

The night cloaks Quincy in shadow as he slips further into the dark, rendering Will unable to discern anything but his silhouette. The viscount selects a weapon—a court sword Will crafted three days previously at the behest of a fashionable Irishman—and holds it aloft, blade gleaming in the flickering firelight.

“This—all of these—are very well made,” he remarks, giving the sword an experimental twirl. “Your handiwork, I’m assuming?”

“Aye. What do you want?”

Will senses rather than sees Quincy’s expression of mock admonishment. “Quite insolent for a blacksmith, aren’t you?” He steps into the light, sword still grasped in his hand. Judging by the way he handles it, Will would guess he most likely knows how to wield it, too.

With his powdered wig and lavish attire, Quincy reminds Will of the former commodore James Norrington.  But the resemblance ends there. While Norrington had an upright air about him, a kind of respectable (albeit stiff) sense of character, this man possesses nothing of the sort. Will’s skin prickles with unease.

From the moment Quincy knocked on the smithy’s door and swept Elizabeth away, an unequivocal aversion to the man overtook Will. There was something…off about him, something distinctly unpleasant that set his teeth on edge. Perhaps it was the way he peered down at Will like some kind of cockroach. Perhaps it was the condescending, saccharine tone he assumed when he talked to Elizabeth. Whatever the case, Will wanted nothing more than for Lord Oliver Quincy, Third Viscount of Avonshire, to dive into the bay and swim himself and his outlandish outfit all the way back to England.

That same desire hits Will again, stronger than ever, but it seems no closer to being fulfilled now than it had the first time he wished it.

Quincy jabs the tip of the sword in Will’s direction and waggles it, tempting Will to seize it blade and all. “From the way Elizabeth spoke of you, I’d been expecting someone a mite more impressive.”

Will’s nails bite into his sweating palms. Already, his hands are beginning to tingle. “What do you want with Elizabeth?”

“The same thing you do, I’d imagine.” To Will’s disappointment (and perhaps to Quincy’s benefit), he withdraws the sword and rests the tip on the ground with a dull thunk. “Her hand and her heart.”

The idea of someone attempting to force Elizabeth Swann to accept anything against her will makes derisive laughter bubble up in his throat. “You don’t get to decide who Elizabeth gives her heart to.”

Quincy dips his head. “Well, you are right about that. I certainly cannot force Elizabeth to accept my proposal. At least, not while she’s so intractably attached to you.” The viscount rubs his chin, leaning against the sword like a cane rather than a deadly weapon. “Really—William, isn’t it?—for all my contemplation, I can’t fathom what Miss Swann could possibly expect to gain from a union with someone like you. A governor’s daughter wed to the village blacksmith? It would be laughable if it weren’t so utterly foolish.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Will asks, shifting uncomfortably on his chair. “To insult me?”

“Oh, no,” Quincy replies with a shake of  his head. “You see, though I hold the title of viscount, I am not a politician at heart. I am much to direct for it.” He leans forward, glaring down at Will like he’s the king of England himself. “Leave Elizabeth Swann to me, and I’ll see you handsomely rewarded for your trouble.”

Silence. Then Will cocks a brow, a smirk working its way across his face. “Resorting to bribery, are we? And you claim you aren’t a politician.”

If only Jack Sparrow could see him now.

Will braces himself for the worst, but Quincy merely straightens with a chuckle, takes the sword, and returns it from whence it came—lamentably out of Will’s reach. He faces Will barehanded. For some inexplicable reason, this seems more threatening than when he brandished the weapon.

“Mr. Turner, I know I’m not a politician. Do you know why?” The thump of Quincy’s boots against the ground is deafening in the utter silence, echoing the thunderous beat of Will’s heart as he draws closer, closer, closer until he stands not a step away, close enough to touch. Will has to tip up his head to meet the viscount’s gaze, and he hates it. “I’m willing to get my hands dirty.” Quincy tilts his head, expression disconcertingly unperturbed. “Now tell me, William: Are you?”

That morning, Will would have laughed if someone had told him Lord Oliver Quincy was a dangerous man. Now, bound and sitting a hand’s breadth away from him, Will is inclined to believe it. But dangerous doesn’t mean invincible. He just has to be bold enough to believe it, to act upon it. A resolution to defend himself—and Elizabeth Swann—settles within him like an anchor plunging to the depths of the sea. Will won’t let Quincy get away with this, not if he can help it. But he can’t do anything yet, not while the attention of all three men is fixed solely upon him. He must do something he loathes nearly above all: He must wait. He must bide his time.

“And what if I don’t?” he asks, playing along with Quincy’s charade. “Perhaps things are different where you’re from, but Governor Swann doesn’t take kindly to kidnapping and murder, which is what you’ll have to do if you want to stop me.”

Quincy scoffs, which surprises Will more than anything. “You can’t possibly believe a courtship between you and Miss Swann could succeed. And marriage? You are a blacksmith, she the daughter of a King’s governor. It’s more preposterous than a celibate King George! Elizabeth’s childish infatuation with you has rendered her blind to the obvious.”

Will’s hands have started to hurt in earnest now. “And what is that?”

“You covet her money, Mr. Turner,” Quincy replies. “You desire her influence and her prestige.”

“Never,” Will bursts out. Overcome by ire, he starts to rise from the chair, but someone—the Scotsman—rams the barrel of his gun against Will’s spine.   

“Easy, Turner,” he mutters.

Though it takes all the self-control he possesses, Will sits.

“Hit a sore spot, have we?” Quincy sneers. “You cannot provide for her the way she truly deserves, and you know it. I’ll only ask you once more: End your liaison with Elizabeth Swann, or face the consequences.”

For a moment, Will is silent. Quincy’s statement rings through his mind, seared there as though with a brand. _You cannot provide for her the way she truly deserves, and you know it_.

Will thinks about Elizabeth, about the fire in her veins and her insatiable thirst for adventure, for independence. He thinks about her hot temper and her quick tongue and her even quicker mind. He thinks about how sometimes he’s sure that if the ocean were cloaked in skin, it would be a woman named Elizabeth Swann. He thinks about himself, about his lowly station and his simple, ordinary job. What could someone like him possibly have to offer someone as boundless and radiant as the sea?

Then he remembers the way she looked at him the day of Jack’s hanging. As if he were everything she had ever wanted and would ever want for the remainder of her days.

 _This is the path you’ve chosen, is it_?

That’s when Will decides: A single look like that is worth all the suffering and heartache in the world.

“Elizabeth Swann may not be with me forever,” he begins. He shrugs and smiles half-heartedly. “I don’t even know if she’ll marry me. It’s her decision, and hers alone. But as for me…” He leans forward, relishing how Quincy’s eyes widen with burgeoning shock. “I’ve fought Port Royal’s guard with nothing but a sword in my hand. I’ve fought the wind and the waves with less than that. I’ve fought bloody pirates—both living and dead. Do you really think you scare me? I wouldn’t abandon Elizabeth if Davy Jones himself demanded it.”

The deepening crimson of the viscount’s face tells Will he should most likely stop while he’s ahead. But his mouth is still running and Quincy’s face is still flushing and he can’t stop now, he still has something to say while there is still breath left in him.

“Do your worst, Oliver Quincy, but know this: You will never force Elizabeth to marry you. Not now, not ever.”

Quincy trembles with rage. “Insolent whelp!”

 _I’ve done it now_.

Will expects the coming blow, but the anticipation doesn’t make it any less painful. Quincy’s fist strikes his ribs with a solid thump, doubling Will over. His shoulders hunch reflexively as he tries to wrap his arms around his ribs, all the air forced from his lungs like the forge’s bellows. The world tips. Will struggles to right himself, to drag air back into his starved lungs, but neither his bound hands nor Quincy’s lackey provide adequate support. Nevertheless, he plants his feet, straightens his spine, and glares at Quincy with all the loathing he can muster.

“You’ll pay for that.”

The viscount takes deep, steadying breaths, the anger draining from him like water from a sponge. He adjusts the collar of his shirt, redness gradually receding from his face. “No. No, I don’t think I will.” He looks at Will, a smirk playing across his lips. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but since you insist on being obstinate…I did the liberty of doing a bit of research—not difficult in a village of this size—and I discovered some very intriguing information about you. It seems Mr. William Turner isn’t as perfect as Elizabeth makes him out to be.”

Will tries to wiggle his hands, to loosen the rope enough for him to slip out. He couldn’t budge; the sailor did his job well. “Get to the point, Quincy.”

Quincy rolls his eyes. “Very well. Does the name _Jack Sparrow_ ring a bell?”

“ _Captain_ Jack Sparrow,” Will snaps impulsively. He instantly wishes he could take the words back, because Quincy’s grin only widens.

“So you’re familiar with the name, I see. Perhaps you are less familiar with the consequences of fraternizing with men like him. Death, Mr. Turner, is the punishment for those who aid and abet criminals of the British empire. It is our law.”

“Governor Swann granted me full pardon,” Will retorts. “I have nothing to fear from my past actions.”

“Oh, but you do.” Quincy clasps his hands behind his back, reminding Will of one of the smug tutors responsible for teaching Elizabeth when they were children. “Being a viscount, I have connections with some very powerful people in very powerful places—company directors, members of Parliament and the Royal. And I’m certain many of them wouldn’t be pleased to find out Weatherby Swann not only allowed the escape of a known criminal, but also pardoned the individual who effectuated it.” He strolls over to where his walking stick rests against the wall and grasps it, fingers curling around the ivory-and-silver handle.  

“Weatherby Swann might have jurisdiction over Port Royal, but are you really willing to test those powers overseas in the courts of England?”

Will’s head swims with the enormity of Quincy’s threat. Can the viscount really convict him? If so, does Elizabeth’s father have the influence to acquit him? Helping Captain Sparrow evade the noose had been a memorable experience—one he has no desire to repeat ever again. Will remembers standing at the wrong end of a soldier’s musket all too well. He vaguely wonders what sort of punishment is administered upon men reconvicted by vengeful aristocrats.

“Why are you doing this?” Will asks. “What is it about Elizabeth you crave so badly? Her status? Her money? Is there no woman in England foolish enough to wed you?”

Quincy smiles, though there is a tightness present Will didn’t notice before. “My business is mine and mine alone,” he replies. “Now, where were we?” He cracks his knuckles and flexes his hand in an obvious (and entirely unnecessary) display of aggression. “I tried asking nicely, Turner. Let me try again: End your affair with Elizabeth Swann. You are worthless to her.”

Will’s lips twist into a sneer of his own. “Says the man who won’t face his adversary unless he’s bound and seated before him.”

The flush begins to creep out from under Quincy’s collar and up his neck. “I would watch my tongue, if I were you, boy. I am Viscount of Avonshire and will be treated as such.”

Though the viscount’s glower foretells some rather unsavoury consequences should Will refuse to comply, he doesn’t break Quincy’s glare. The firelight carves deep shadows in his face, giving his pale eyes a sinister, almost fiendish glow. There is something distinctly unnerving about the idea of a living soul bearing such a face and committing acts such as these, Will thinks. At least with Barbossa and his crew had been cursed, at least they had been dead inside. Even so, Will refuses to show his fear. He’s been through worse than spoiled nobility.

“You are a coward and a fool.”

Quincy’s mouth opens and shuts soundlessly as he struggles to rally a sufficient rejoinder. Evidently he fails, because he storms away without a word, coattails fluttering in his wake. Without looking back, he gives a command:

“Morris, Walter—hold him.”

Will surges out of the chair with a ferocious cry, but the Scotsman wrestles him back down, hands clamped around his arms tightly enough to bruise. The sailor hurries over to aid his comrade. Energy spikes in Will like wildfire. He bucks against the Scotsman’s grip, straining against the rope binding his hands with all his might. Then the chair tips, and Will, the Scotsman, and the sailor lurch to the ground in a jumble of bodies and limbs.

Dust flies, coating Will’s skin and tickling his eyes and nose as he lashes out with his legs. He drives his knee into the soft midsection of the Scotsman, who curses and loosens his grip on Will’s arm. Almost simultaneously, Will’s foot connects with the kneecap of the sailor. The man howls, releasing Will to nurse his injured knee.

Somehow, Will manages to get his hands beneath him and heave himself to his feet. He lunges for the Scotsman—or rather, for the pistol stuck in his waistband.

Then something long and hard connects with Will’s shoulder. He pitches to the ground with a cry, flinging up his arms to protect himself. Before he can recover, a boot plows into his stomach.

Will tries to curse, but nothing comes out save a pathetic wheeze as he curls into a ball, all his focus concentrated on keeping the contents of his stomach inside his body.

Quincy towers over him, swinging his walking stick back and forth like a pendulum.

“You want me to do my best, boy?” he hisses, eyes glinting with frenetic light. “You want me to get my hands dirty?”

“Go to hell,” Will grunts, planting his fists and shifting his legs beneath him. _Get up, get up, get up_ —

The answering grin on Quincy’s lips trickles ice-cold dread through Will’s blood.

“Why, Mr. Turner—we’re already there. Now have a seat. The fun has only just begun.”

***

Elizabeth spends the day following her confrontation with Quincy braced for some kind of retaliation. A strongly-worded letter, a caller in the streets—perhaps even a visit from Quincy himself. But not this. Not…nothing at all. Part of her wants to dismiss his threats as idle, but the rest of her isn’t so sure. If she simply allows Quincy to get away with belittling and bullying her, what’s to stop him from taking things a step too far? One way or another, Elizabeth has to end their quarrel before Quincy can take that step.

However, her schedule allows no time to do more than ponder. The Maloney sisters, daughters of eminent clergyman Adam Maloney, come calling sometime after breakfast. Under normal circumstances, Elizabeth would be grateful for the company. However, these aren’t normal circumstances, and she has difficulty engaging herself in one of the most common hobbies of the affluent: gossip. Her mind keeps drifting back to the problem of Quincy, and what she intends to do about it.

Quincy’s title infers both a considerable measure of protection, as well as means to fight back. But as the governor’s daughter, Elizabeth possesses those benefits also. Her father would do anything to guarantee Elizabeth’s safety, but he also feels obliged to Quincy because of his close friendship with Quincy’s late father. Perhaps if—

“You’ll never guess who Mrs. Dougherty said Mr. Kent’s cousin Jacqueline saw at Broderick’s Tavern last night,” Abigail chirps.

“Hm?” Elizabeth blinks. “Oh! Who?”

“Well,” she begins, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye, “According to Mrs. Dougherty, Jacqueline swears on her sainted mother’s grave he saw Oliver Quincy, Third Viscount of Avonshire, sitting at one of the gambling tables. And not like an outsider, mind you. Jacqueline says Lord Quincy couldn’t have seemed more at home if he’d kicked off his shoes and put a kettle on.”

So Oliver Quincy isn’t as principled as he might have others assume.

“Did she tell you anything else?” Elizabeth enquires. “Mrs. Dougherty, I mean.”

“She didn’t,” Abigail replies mournfully. “I wish she had. According to Briana Aspen, Lord Quincy is of a most respectable fortune—five thousand a year, she says—and the most eligible bachelor in all of Port Royal.”

“Have you not spent the past few days entertaining Lord Quincy?” Abigail’s elder sister, Elaine, enquires keenly. “Does he seem to have interest in finding himself a wife?”

While the idea of turning the Maloney sisters loose upon Quincy is a tempting one, Elizabeth wouldn’t dream of condemning either Abigail or Elaine to such a ghastly fate. So she shakes her head and says, “He hasn’t said.”

“How unfortunate,” Abigail sighs. “Not all of us can wed common blacksmiths, you know.”

“Oh, but did you hear about the falling-out between Mr. Forester and Miss Hewitt?” Elaine pipes up. “According to Alice Ashley, Miss Hewitt no longer wants anything to do with him. Alice says Jennie Madison saw them in the marketplace just yesterday, in the middle of a dreadful row…”

Elizabeth can see she won’t be acquiring any more information regarding Quincy’s nighttime activities from Abigail, so she just smiles and nods as she’s been trained to do. Apparently the Maloneys are fooled, because they don’t depart until well after dinner. And it isn’t until then that Father chooses to inform Elizabeth of the important guests arriving for supper, which she is required to attend.

Elizabeth sighs and pokes at the steak on her plate, having long since abandoned maintain a pretense of hunger. Perhaps Elizabeth is reading too much in to the situation. Perhaps nothing will come of Quincy’s threats. Perhaps he is all bark and no bite. Or perhaps she’s just being hopeful. Elizabeth recalls her last meeting with Quincy, the desperation saturating his voice like poison. Why Quincy is so set on pursuing her, she might never know. Perhaps Will—

Will. Of course! How could she have forgotten about him? She will visit him soon—tonight, she decides—no matter what Father might think. Having made her decision, Elizabeth digs into her meal with renewed vigor, appetite returned with a vengeance. She would need her strength should Will elect to give her another lesson in swordplay.

***

Even though it’s too dark for Will to be working, Elizabeth visits the forge just to be sure he isn’t there after-hours, hammering away at some new order or special project. As she suspected he would be, Will is absent—however, John Brown is not. He’s slumped onto the chair next to the workbench, clutching a bottle of brandy in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other. One glimpse of him ascertains which of the two items has been his most recent priority. The man squints at Elizabeth and belches loudly enough to wake the dead.

“Miss Elizabeth? What’re you doin’ ‘ere?”

“Forgive me, Mr. Brown. I was only searching for Will. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?”

Mr. Brown grunts and flings a beefy arm toward the door. “I should ask you the same thing. Boy didn’t come into work t’day. I thought he done run off with you. Ever since he started courtin’ ya, his head’s been up in the clouds half the time. ‘S downright bothersome, it is.”

Elizabeth leaves Mr. Brown grumbling about Will’s various iniquities, repressing the temptation to bring to light some of his own flagrant shortcomings. Emerging from the smithy, she crosses the street and makes a beeline for the Aspen Inn.

During Will’s apprenticeship days, Will’s arrangement with Tamar Aspen was simple: free room and board in exchange for help around the hostel. Even now that Will has a full-time job at the forge, Peggy offers him a discounted rate and Will continues to perform odd jobs for her—a mutually beneficial agreement for both parties.

Yasmin, Tamar’s youngest daughter and one of the inn’s maids, greets Elizabeth with a nod as she walks through the door into the dining area. “Miss Swann.”

“Yasmin.” They share a furtive smile as Elizabeth weaves around the tables and chairs scattered about the room and turns to ascend the staircase leading up to the inn’s living quarters. One of the other maids eyes Elizabeth with less camaraderie. Elizabeth knows how the situation must look to her: A woman alone, visiting the room of a non-relative as the sun sets. But unlike her father, Elizabeth couldn’t care less about the maid’s opinion—or anyone else’s, for that matter. She climbs the stairs with her head held high, impervious to the disapproving glances flashed her way.

When she reaches Will’s quarters, she knocks on his door the way she had when they were children—two slow taps, two quick, one slow.

Silence. Elizabeth frowns. She presumed Will would be here when Mr. Brown said he hadn’t shown up to work, but perhaps she made her assumption too quickly.

“Will?” she calls tentatively. “It’s me, Elizabeth. Are you there?”

Something behind the door clatters as though fallen to the ground. Worry rears its ugly head in Elizabeth’s chest. She tries the door and finds it locked. “Will!”

Elizabeth is weighing the odds of successfully kicking the door down when it swings open. Will stands before her, shadows dancing over his stooped figure. He smiles. “Elizabeth.”

“Will…are you all right?” Elizabeth studies him thoroughly, searching for the pallor and dull eyes of sickness. She vividly remembers the time consumption struck Port Royal, brought by infected passengers aboard one of the many ships docked at the harbour. Will had been bedridden for weeks. “You seem…ill.”

“I’m not ill,” he assures her. “Would you like to come in?” He starts to move aside, but something gives inside him, and he hunches over with a muffled grunt.

Elizabeth’s heart skips a beat. “Will?”

“Elizabeth.” Her name escapes his lips stilted and breathless—such a foreign sound coming from someone like Will Elizabeth almost can’t believe he is the one who uttered it. He crumples against the doorframe, arm draped over his midsection, face turned away from her in a futile attempt to hide what is clearly immense pain.

All of a sudden, the crash she’d heard right before Will answered the door is plainly explained. 

She falls more than runs to him and takes his face in her hands. His jaw is rough with stubble. “What happened?”

“Nothing, Elizabeth. I shouldn’t have fallen, I’m—” His breath catches as Elizabeth skins her hands down his sides. Her fingers discover layers of cloth bunched beneath his shirt—rumpled bandages, she determines, wrapped clumsily around his upper torso. When she prods further, Will cringes away from her with a hiss.

“Elizabeth, don’t—”

Elizabeth’s hands still. “Don’t what? Don’t help you? Don’t tell me what to do, Will.” Honestly, the bullheadedness of men astounds her at times. “Here, you need to sit down.”

She grabs Will’s arm and slings it around her waist. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices him open his mouth, ostensibly on the verge of insisting he’s capable of walking on his own, thank you very much. Elizabeth’s cautionary expression must warn him otherwise, because he shuts his mouth and gives her a grateful, albeit tight-lipped, smile.

He allows Elizabeth to lead him across the wood-plank floor to the corner of the room in which his bed sits, and lower him carefully onto the mattress. The bed’s frame creaks ominously when Elizabeth adds her weight, sitting next to him at a proximity she’s sure would give her father heart palpations. She leans across the bed and draws the curtains of the window overlooking the street below. The candlelight shining from the sconces over Will’s table seems brighter now, casting the room in a dim vermilion glow.

“Now what happened? Did you hurt yourself at the forge again?” Heaven knows he’s injured himself there before, far more times than Elizabeth thought standard.

Will only shakes his head.

“Well, then, what is it?” Elizabeth yearns to reach out to Will, to provide comfort, but she knows he’s likely to spurn any assistance she offers. So she folds her hands in her lap, one hand squeezing the other.

“I…fell.”

“You fell. Honestly, Will, you can’t expect me to believe that.”

His answering shrug turns into an undisputable flinch. His breaths come shallow and quick, like he’d just run all the way from the docks to the mansion without stopping.

“Will…” Her hand brushes Will’s cheek as if he’s made of porcelain. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

He bows his head, strands of hair falling across his face. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth’s hand drifts to his collar, a silent request, an anguished plea. “Please…Let me help you.”

Will inhales a deep breath, then twists to face her. “All right.”

Gently, mindful of Will’s discomfort, Elizabeth grabs his shirt by the bottom hem and tugs it over his head.

Shoddy bandages wrap around Will’s chest, but they conceal only a small portion of the tapestry of violence unfurled before her. Wounds mottle every inch of his torso, so numerous he resembles a sort of calico cat—except a cat isn’t rendered bedridden by its markings. Bruises of varying size, shape, and color dapple his chest, back, and disappear beneath his trousers. There are abrasions, too. Some are deep enough to have drawn blood.

Elizabeth hurts just looking at him.

Will swallows, throat bobbing as Elizabeth performs her examination, running her fingers lightly over him as though he might shatter. Everything touched by candlelight is stained the vibrant hues of flame, and Will is in exception. His bare skin is the sky at sunrise, an expanse of heaven doused with golden light, bleeding umbrose clouds and slashes of crimson that herald the coming dawn.  

It takes Elizabeth a moment to find her voice. “Is anything broken?”

“I’m not sure,” Will replies. “My ribs—I bound them.” The bandage, poorly wrapped to begin with, droops pitifully as he gestures at it.

“Here, let me fix it.” Elizabeth leans in and begins unwinding the fabric. “Do you have a salve of some sort?”

“Elizabeth…”

She doesn’t look up from her work. “Hm.”

“Elizabeth.” This time his voice is tighter, a rope about to snap. A hand, familiarly rough, takes her own and pushes it gently away. Will’s whole face is flushed scarlet, and Elizabeth doesn’t think it’s entirely due to the candlelight.

“Will.” She almost wants to laugh. Almost. The look on Will’s face washes away any humor she might have felt, replaced by a hot ember nestled deep within her chest. The ember sets her body alight, devoting every nerve, every vessel, every particle of her being to the man sitting before her. She wants to be near him. She wants the heat of his skin against hers. She wants to touch him and feel him and hold him and never let go.

Elizabeth leans in as though pulled by invisible threads, lips barely a breath away from his. She is close enough to feel the warmth of his flesh. She wonders vaguely if he could possibly want her as much as she wants him. Will moves to close the gap between them. Elizabeth closes her eyes, waiting for bliss to fall.

Then he hisses in pain and falls back with a frustrated huff, the color drained from his face like sun-bleached wood.

A wrath Elizabeth has never known roars inside her, incinerating the flames of desire which had consumed her so completely just moments before. How could she be caught up in the flames of passion when Will is so covered with bruises he can barely walk?

“Who did this to you?” She asks the question as if she doesn’t already know the question.

Will only shakes his head. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Don’t want me to get hurt? What about you?” Elizabeth demands, nearly hurtling off the bed in her vehemence.

“I’ll be fine,” Will insists.

Elizabeth seizes the cloth bandage with much less care than before. She loosens the remainder of it from Will’s back and crumples it in her hands. “It was Quincy, wasn’t it.”

His silence is answer enough. Blood roaring in her ears, Elizabeth stretches the bandage so far it begins to tear. “How dare he,” she snarls. “Lift your arms.” She starts winding the fabric around his chest in short, jarring movements. “I am going to—”

“What are you going to do?” Will’s eyes are hard with bitterness. It turns them cold, like chips of jasper polished by the sea.  “He is a viscount. I”—he gives a derisive snort, then winces as it twinges his battered ribs—“am a lowly commoner, remember?”

“And I am the daughter of the King’s governor,” Elizabeth replies, tying the strip of cloth with deft, quick fingers. “Quincy will pay for what he’s done. He can’t be allowed to get away with atrocities such as this.”

“I think he can.” Jaw clenched, Will hangs his head. After all they’d been through together, Elizabeth has never seen him look so demoralised. So helpless. “He knows, Elizabeth. He knows about Jack Sparrow, about what I did to get you back, and what I did to free him. He threatened to overrule your father’s pardon.”

Will’s words hit her like a blow to the stomach. “Surely he can’t do that!” Elizabeth sputters. She smooths the fabric over his skin, more to keep her hands busy than any real need for it. “You are a citizen of Port Royal, and as such my father—”

“Is not a viscount,” Will interrupts. “Quincy—he knows people, powerful people who hate Jack enough to punish anyone who’ve helped him in the past. You know the punishment for aiding and abetting criminals, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth places a hand on Will’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. “You truly believe Quincy could be so ruthless as to condemn an innocent man to death?”

“You know him better than I,” Will responds. “What do you think?”

“I see the evidence of his ruthlessness sitting before me,” Elizabeth replies. “If he is capable of doing this”—she gestures at Will and the injuries he sustains—“then I believe he isn’t merely posing empty threats.”

“If Quincy does garner the attention of the gentry, then—”

“Father will fight them,” Elizabeth declares. “And if Father can’t, I will. I’ll fight anyone who tries to take you away from me.” She leans in so her forehead rests against his. They respire together, two hearts beating as one. If only they could remain like this for an eternity. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Will pulls back, brows furrowed. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

Elizabeth folds her hands in her lap, pursing her lips. “Quincy…he proposed to me this afternoon.”

“What—”

“I was going to tell you,” Elizabeth says quickly. “I’ve just been so busy.”

“And what did you tell him?” His tone is carefully unconcerned, but beneath it Elizabeth hears tension—perhaps even nervousness.

“I told him no, of course,” Elizabeth replies, trying and failing not to sound indignant. “And he—he became very angry and made threats. I should’ve taken those threats more seriously at the time, but I never imagined him monstrous enough to do this.”

“I’ll heal,” Will promises. Any tension Elizabeth might have perceived has drained away. “Quincy was careful not to rough me up too badly.”

“It doesn’t matter how careful he was,” Elizabeth snaps. “Our feud gives him no right to take his anger out on you.” Seeing him this way, crippled by pain, is bad enough. Her inability to immediately take away his discomfort makes her very heart cry out as though torn in two. Elizabeth’s insides churn, a gale violent and untamable stirring beneath her skin. She has to do something before she works herself into a hurricane.   

“Let me go to the apothecary,” she suggests. “Mr. Matthews is bound to have some sort of salve for you.”

Will smiles and brushes his hand against her cheek. His fingers are rough, but Elizabeth doesn’t mind. His touch calms the tempest whirling inside her, if only for a moment. “I doubt he’s open at this hour,” he says, glancing instinctively at the curtained window. “Besides, it’s getting late. Your father will start to worry.”

“Leaving you here alone would be just as terrible a deed as Quincy’s,” Elizabeth asserts. “I will do no such thing.”

“People will talk,” Will warns. “Not to mention your father—”

“Hang them all,” Elizabeth scoffs. “It is here I belong, and it is here I will stay.” Propriety and reputation matters not to Elizabeth, not where Will is concerned. If she so had the inclination, she would march about the streets proclaiming her affection for him.

For a few seconds, Will is quiet, gazing at Elizabeth with something like wonderment in his eyes. The way a fledgling stares at the sky. Then he leans in—slowly, to alleviate some of his discomfort—and presses his lips against hers. When he withdraws, Elizabeth’s entire body is aflame.

“What did I ever do to deserve someone like you?” he whispers, peering at her through a tangle of lashes.

“You were yourself,” Elizabeth replies. She often thinks about the day she first met Will all those years ago, the day he floated into her path and her charge and changed her life as she knew it. Was it merely luck that allowed them to meet, or a something stronger, something divine? Whatever it is, whether it be fate or good fortune, Elizabeth is forever grateful. How else would she have found someone like Will, someone whose soul sings in such perfect harmony with hers? For it is not her mind speaking now, but something deeper, intangible except in the most profound recesses of her being.

 _Be still, my beloved, and hearken unto the song of my soul_.

 “You were just as you are now: Will Turner—blacksmith, pirate, hero…” A smile breaks across her face like the rising of the sun. _My now and forever love_. "You are a good man with a good heart. And that’s all I ever want you to be.”

***

The caesious light of the wee hours before morning filters through the curtain, rousing Elizabeth from a restless slumber. She sits up in the chair she pulled over at some point during the night, wincing at the ache of muscles unaccustomed to resting in cramped positions for a long stretch of time. Her fingers are still entwined with Will’s. She extricates her hand as gently as she can, watching him intently for signs of waking. Thankfully, he doesn’t stir.

Elizabeth takes a moment to wake fully, enjoying the familiarity of Will’s room, the warmth and comfort even the mansion can’t quite match. Unlike Elizabeth’s chambers, Will’s room is simple and tidy, furnished decently but embellished sparsely. Over the past eight years, Elizabeth has witnessed the room change, along with Will, from the unfamiliar abode of a stranger, to something like her second home. Various knickknacks and other items strewn about the small space provide ample evidence of the success of his assimilation into Port Royal’s society.

A fondness for him—so intense, so real it seems silly—wells up inside her. She spent much of the night rubbing his scalp in long, soothing strokes, the way Estrella did when she used to wash Elizabeth’s hair. It took a while for Will’s breathing to even out, and even longer for him to fall asleep completely. She’s glad he still slumbers now; he needs rest if he’s to convalesce quickly.

A cup—wooden, not glass like the ones she drinks from at the mansion—lies on the floor. The source of the clatter from last night, Elizabeth guesses. When she picks up the cup and sets it on the table, something else catches her eye. Upon closer inspection, she realizes it’s a crude carving of a ship, with sticks and scraps of cloth intended to be rigging spread out around it over the table. She looks around and smiles at Will’s sleeping form.

Elizabeth steals soundlessly out of the room and traipses awkwardly down the stairs and into the dining room, her sore muscles shrieking in protest.

“Elizabeth.” Yasmin appears from the back room carrying a basket of towels. Unlike Will, she has no qualms when it comes to addressing Elizabeth informally, which Elizabeth appreciates greatly. Yasmin blows a strand of dark hair from her face and grins, teeth gleaming white against bronze skin. “What can I get for you?”

“Will is feeling a bit under the weather,” Elizabeth explains. “Would it be too much to ask if I could take some food up to his room?”

“Of course not,” Yasmin replies, brown eyes sparkling with amusement. The unspoken question lingering in her eyes couldn’t be plainer, but Elizabeth refuses to humor her. What goes on between her and Will isn’t anyone’s business but their own.

Yasmin is strangely quiet until she offers the tray of food to Elizabeth. When Elizabeth tries to take it from her, Yasmin doesn’t let go, prompting a questioning, then slightly exasperated look from Elizabeth.

“Busy night, hm?”

Elizabeth has the grace to blush, however faintly.

***

Will is waiting for her when she walks back through the door. He lies on his bed so stiffly he might be a corpse.

“Will.” Elizabeth wipes the crumbs of a biscuit she was devouring on her skirt and hurries to his side. “How do you feel?”

“I’m all right,” he begins. Then adds, “I feel like I’ve been keelhauled.”

“Everything will be all right. I’ve brought breakfast.” She hefts the tray in her arms and is gratified to see Will’s eyes brighten considerably.

“It smells wonderful,” he says. Slowly, cautiously, he shifts into sitting position. By the end, he’s breathing like he just lifted a hundred stone. “Though I’m not sure how inclined I am to eating at the moment.”

“You must keep your strength up,” Elizabeth says, placing the tray on the edge of table. “While you eat, I’ll go to the apothecary and see if I can’t find a liniment for your bruises. How else are you going to help me clout Quincy all the way back to England?”

Will’s expression darkens at the mention of the viscount’s name. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

“I’ll send him a letter,” Elizabeth replies. “I will delineate very clearly his offences toward you and I and demand restitution, lest he be punished to the fullest extent of the law.”

“Quincy attacked me, Elizabeth. Don’t you think I should be the one to confront him?” Teeth clenched against the pain clearly afflicting him, Will attempts to rise and falls back against the headboard with a frustrated grunt.

“Will, you can barely move, let alone get out of bed. Besides, this isn’t only your fight. The reason Quincy went after you was to send a message me. I underestimated him.” A mistake she won’t make twice.

“We both did,” Will responds softly. He stares up at her with those big brown eyes of his, and Elizabeth is sure if she looks long enough she could drown in them. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

Once again, Elizabeth can’t help but smile. “I’ll be all right,” she assures him. “Now rest. Eat, regain your strength. I will be back shortly.”  
Before he can argue, Elizabeth bends down, presses a swift kiss to his lips, and hastens out the door.

***

Elizabeth arrives at the mansion just in time to see the messenger boy striding away from the house, papers in hand. She changes course, bounding across the meticulously-kept front yard as fast as her skirts will allow.

“Sawney!” she calls. “Sawney, wait!”

The boy turns around, and when he spots Elizabeth his face splits into a wide grin. “Why, Miss Swann! What’re you doin’ out at such an early hour?”

“I-I wanted to send a letter,” Elizabeth wheezes. “To Lord…Lord Oliver Quincy. You’re able to find him, are you not?”

“Of Course, Miss,” Sawney replies scornfully. “There ain’t a nook or cranny in Port Royal Sawney Birch don’t know about.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth sighs. Sawney stares at her expectantly. It takes Elizabeth a moment to realise he’s waiting for her to hand him the letter—the letter she has yet to compose. “Oh! Erm…give me a moment, will you? I must’ve left it in the house.”

Sawney dips his head in acquiescence. Elizabeth races into the house, brushing past a startled maid, and bounds up the stairs to at a time to her chambers. Not bothering to shut the door, she flops down at her desk and pulls a piece of stationery and a quill from their place in the corner. Strands of hair tickle her neck and face as she hovers over paper, quill poised to dip into the inkwell sitting nearby.

 _Come now_ , _Elizabeth_ , she chides herself. _Why do you hesitate_? _You are the governor’s daughter. Now write!_

And write she does.

***

Once she sends Henry off with the letter, Elizabeth makes herself busy. She performs the most rudimentary ablutions at top speed, changes into a fresh gown, then rushes to the apothecary to fetch Will a salve before her father can catch sight of her. Mr. Matthews is just opening his shop when Elizabeth arrives. She buys the best ointment she can afford with her allowance, and starts toward Aspen Inn in hopes of trammeling the delusions undoubtedly running through Will’s thick skull. Knowing Will, he’s probably hobbled out of bed and made it halfway to the forge by now.

“Miss Elizabeth!”

Elizabeth freezes. Slowly, she turns around to face the source of the voice calling her.

“Lucy!” she says. “Hello!”

Lucy puts her hands on her hips in a familiar gesture of equal parts concern and exasperation. “Miss Elizabeth, where have you been? Your father’s worried about you!”

Given that Elizabeth had spent much of the day avoiding him, she can understand why. “Don’t worry about me, Lucy,” Elizabeth says, edging away from her as she speaks. “Father needn’t be concerned.”

“And where are you headed off to?” Lucy asks, raising a suspicious eyebrow. “Your father will want to see you; I’m sure of it.”

“I’ll come home as soon as I can,” Elizabeth promises, and turns to flee in the direction of the Inn. She scurries away before Lucy can demand otherwise.

When she arrives at Will’s room for the second time, Will, as Elizabeth suspected he would be, is in the process of making his way out of his room. Luckily for Elizabeth—and perhaps for Will, also—his injuries impede his way somewhat, or else he probably would be making his way down the streets by now, for better or for worse.

“Will,” Elizabeth sighs. “Where do you think you’re going?” She cringes inwardly, realising she sounds exactly as Lucy had just a few moments before. 

Will’s expression is equal parts resolve and mortification. “Smithy,” he grinds out. He’s hunched over like an eighty-year-old and breathing like one, too. Though the wall is barely an arms-length away, he won’t reach out and use it to support himself. “Mr. Brown needs me to keep the place going.”

“Mr. Brown needs you to rest,” Elizabeth corrects. “You can’t expect yourself to work like this.”

Jaw set, Will takes a few more shuffling steps toward the staircase. “I’ll do what I must.”

“And what you must do is rest,” Elizabeth insists. “You can barely walk down the hall—how do you expect to get down the stairs? I most certainly won’t help you.”

Will eyes her balefully. “I don’t need your help. I climbed the stairs two nights ago; I can do it now.”

“And King George was born in England,” Elizabeth scoffs. “What of Quincy? Who knows what he’ll do if he sees you again—he could kill you!”

“He can try,” Will responds. The glint in his eyes sharpens his words into a threat, a vow.

“Will.” Elizabeth’s palm brushes his jaw. His skin is damp with sweat.  “I know you’re hurt. I know you’re angry. But you can’t just go barreling into this without a plan. Quincy…he isn’t a pirate or some common rascal. We have to think this through.”

“Since when have you been about thinking things through?”

“Since I realised my actions can have consequences. Devastating ones.” Elizabeth inhales a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of calm and control. “I’ve sent Quincy a letter asking him to meet me at Seasweet Coffeehouse this afternoon.”

“You can’t go alone,” Will says, brow furrowed. “I-I’m coming with you.”

“Even if you weren’t injured, I wouldn’t advise it,” Elizabeth replies. “Your presence there would only serve to aggravate Quincy. I’m trying to diffuse the situation, not make it worse.”

Will’s answering look reminds Elizabeth of the time he found out his father had been a pirate. Denial, betrayal, but mostly anger.

“Here.” Elizabeth presses the tin of salve into his hand. “I must return home for now, or Father might send a search party after me.” She kisses him—simply, sweetly, and much too briefly—then turns and starts back the way she came.

“Elizabeth.”

She turns.

Despite his efforts to hide it, Will’s concern shines plainly in his gaze. “Be careful.”

Elizabeth nods and hurries away.

***

Quincy’s response to Elizabeth’s letter arrives that afternoon. Elizabeth, having sat through another of her father’s lectures regarding decorum and modesty, is glad for a reason to escape the mansion, even for a reason dire as this.

She approaches the Seasweet Coffeehouse with less caution than perhaps appropriate. But she is eager to end their quarrel one way or another, and loitering about will only prolong the matter. However, when she enters the coffeehouse, she doesn’t see Quincy. Already wondering if Quincy has concocted some kind of elaborate trap, she makes her way toward the back of the coffeehouse, watching cautiously for suspicious activity.

Quincy sits in the back corner of the shop, partially concealed by the semicircular counter stretching across the back wall. And he isn’t alone.

She dives behind end of the counter, waiting for Quincy to make a revelatory remark, or even send someone after her. When he doesn’t, she peeks out from behind her hiding place. Two men sit across from Quincy, engaged in what seems to be a serious discussion.  

“…patience, gentlemen. After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“Rome didn’t have to keep food in ‘is belly and a roof over ‘is head.” A man—a sailor, Elizabeth presumes, judging by his clothes and weathered skin—leans toward Quincy, tanned face contorted in a furious scowl.

Though Elizabeth cannot see the viscount’s expression, he doesn’t seem fazed. “Might I remind you, gentlemen, of your circumstances before coming under my employment. The Fleet is quite crowded this time of year; would you like to see it again?”

Both men begin to rise, attracting the attention of those nearby. “Why you—”

“Ah.” Quincy holds up a gloved hand. “I’ll thank you to remember, Mr. Morris—dead men cannot pay their employees. Now run along, both of you. I have other matters in need of my attention.”

The two men storm away, leaving a trail of shocked clients in their wake.

Elizabeth isn’t foolish enough to pop up the second the men leave. She waits, counting an agonizing one hundred seconds before she rises and makes her way toward his table.  

Quincy spots her almost immediately and rises to his feet. To anyone else, he would appear to be a courteous Englishman inviting a lady to a pleasant cup of coffee. “Elizabeth. Come to reconsider my offer?”

Elizabeth doesn’t take the offered chair. She marches up to Quincy, standing so close she can almost smell the evil radiating off him. “In the week you’ve been here, I haven’t seen you do one bit of work. Did you really sail all the way across the Atlantic just to harass me?”

Quincy raises a single eyebrow. “Did you really come all the way here just to ask me that?”

Elizabeth draws herself up, gathering up the rage seething inside her and tucking it away, deep, deep down within herself. Now is not the time for a tempest; it is time for a river, steadily wearing away her enemy’s resolve. “Lord Quincy, I remand reparation for your crimes against Will Turner.”

To Elizabeth’s horror, savage satisfaction flickers in Quincy’s gaze. “Ah, the noble blacksmith,” he says, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “I would ask after his health, but I think both of us know the answer to that.”

She’s a river, she’s a river… “You will be arraigned and prosecuted for—”

The viscount sits with all the flourish and grace of a nobleman, gesturing for Elizabeth to do the same. “If you’ve spoken to your darling Turner as I suspect you have, then you know that’s not true. Continue these childish games, Miss Swann, and I will send a letter to Parliament naming William Turner a traitor to the Crown and requesting immediate disciplinary action against him.”

Almost subconsciously, Elizabeth finds herself sinking into the chair across from Quincy, the floor rocking beneath her feet like the deck of a ship. “The magistrate will never—”

“Port Royal’s magistrate is little more than a puppet dressed in a wig,” Quincy cuts in, waving a dismissive hand. “And your father? He might be governor, but he is not the King of England. He cannot stand against the orders of Parliament lest he wishes to come under their scrutiny as well.”

“We’ll see about that,” Elizabeth snarls, blood thundering in her ears.

“Doubt my resolve, Miss Swann?” The viscount takes a delicate sip from his porcelain cup. “Watch and see: Instead of your arms around Turner’s neck, it’ll be a noose. Or, you could accept my offer. Marry me, and I will let the matter go.”

All Elizabeth can do is stare, acrid revulsion creeping up her throat. “You would willingly condemn an innocent man to death?”

“Innocent?” Quincy scoffs and sets down his cup with an indignant clink. “Mr. Turner is many things, but I wouldn’t call him that. Let’s do a little evaluation, shall we?” He holds up one finger. “Stealing a ship of the Royal Navy”—he unfurls a second—“not once, but twice aiding in the escape of a known pirate, and”—and a third—“if my sources are accurate, he sailed under the flag of one for a time. Now tell me: Do the deeds I’ve delineated sound like those of an innocent man?”

Elizabeth silently promises to find every one of Port Royal’s resident gossipers and keelhaul each of them in turn. “But he did all of it to protect me. To save me! Surely you understand that.”

Quincy leans back in his chair, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. “What I understand, Miss Swann, is business. I am a merchant, not a philanthropist.”

Elizabeth’s midriff presses against the table, but she hardly notices. “Is that so? Then where are your books, Lord Quincy? Where are your crew and your clerks. Merchants are an industrious people. They are always assessing goods or making new deals. You, sir, are doing everything but.” Elizabeth searches Quincy’s eyes for a tell, for anything proving her right. “You’re hiding something, and I intend to find out what.”

“You can try,” he replies with a cold smile. But Elizabeth notices the shadow passing over his eyes, belying his confident words. “Test me, Miss Swann, and see where it gets you. I’ll give you three days to consider my offer.”

Waves crash against Elizabeth’s bones. Wind howls in her lungs. Her river has burgeoned into a deluge, ferocious and gelid. When she speaks, she hopes her words will knock Quincy clean off his feet. “And I’ll give you the same to consider this: Leave while you still can, and I will be merciful in my dealings.”

Quincy throws back his head and laughs. He laughs as though Elizabeth just told him a marvelous joke, and all she can do is sit and glower. His response reduces Elizabeth’s wrathful flood to something puerile and insignificant. “Little princess, your naivety is truly delightful. You think you’re going to sweep in like some kind of hero and save the day. You think you’re invincible.” His hand drifts toward the walking stick propped against the table. Elizabeth didn’t take much notice of it before now, but now she realises what a mistake her disregard had been. “If my years as Viscount of Avonshire have taught me anything, Miss Swann, it is that all men bleed. It’s only a matter of applying the right kind of force.”

Elizabeth stands. “That is all very well and good, Lord Quincy. However, you forget one thing: I am not a man. But you are, and I promise you’ll bleed like one by the time this is over. I’ll make sure of it.”

Then she storms out of Seasweet Coffeehouse with her head held high, leaving a speechless and incensed viscount behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments/kudos if you liked! The next chapter should be posted this coming Sunday (March 24th).


	3. Part III

**Part Three**

_I to the world am like a drop of water_

_That in the ocean seeks another drop,_

_Who, falling there to find his fellow forth,_

_Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself._

\- William Shakespeare, _A Comedy of Errors_

* * *

 

 **That night, while Father is** wholly occupied by governor’s business, Elizabeth steals back to the Aspen Inn with a loaf of bread, a bunch of grapes, and a selection of cheeses swiped from the mansion’s pantry.

Will, of course, refuses to take the only seat in his room and elects to sit on his bed instead. He then realises it’s nearly impossible for him to balance his meal on his lap, so Elizabeth decides to revert back to their old standard: They dine like the ancient Greeks, sprawled out on a tattered blanket laid over the floor. For all Will’s flustered apologies, Elizabeth secretly enjoys this more than the finest meals consumed in the most elaborate settings Port Royal has to offer.

Will digs into the food with gratifying enthusiasm, which makes Elizabeth all the more thankful for his healthful constitution. He sits quite stiffly, and Elizabeth can still descry bruises peeking out from under the collar of his shirt, but otherwise he seems to be nothing more than extensively sore. Elizabeth has heard of men dropping dead from nothing more than a single blow to the middle; Will is lucky he made it out with no permanent damage.

“I’ll be back to work in no time,” he informs her through a mouthful of bread.

“How long will that be, I wonder, with Quincy breathing down both our necks,” Elizabeth replies darkly.

Will casts her a sidelong glance. “You met with him.”

Elizabeth nods sullenly. “He gave me three days to give him an answer to his proposal. Three days to accept him, or you’ll be clapped in irons and sentenced to the noose.”

“And what answer will you give him?” Will pops a piece of cheese into his mouth.

“I will answer his threat with vengeance,” Elizabeth declares. “What he’s done cannot go unpunished.”

“Of course you have,” Will sighs. “What does your father have to say about all this?”

The very mention of him makes the grape in Elizabeth’s mouth turn sour. “Father is too biased to have a viable opinion. He believes Quincy isn’t altogether despicable. Even if he did, he can only imprison Quincy for so long. Without the official sentence of a territorial judge, I’m sure Quincy would be liberated without so much as a warning.”

“Bloody politics,” Will grumbles, and props his legs beneath him in the first step of what is now a lengthy, arduous process. Remaining in one position for too long exacerbates his aches, he claims, and Elizabeth is inclined to believe him. “At least the pirates were straightforward. If he weren’t a viscount, I’d just stick my sword in him and be done with it.”

The world grinds to a screeching halt. “Hm?”

Will flushes, glancing down at Elizabeth like a chastened schoolboy. “Well, I—"

Elizabeth springs into a crouch and cups Will’s face in her hands, face splitting into a wide grin. “Will, you wonderful, brilliant man. You’ve given us the answer.”

His lips curve up in a victorious smile. “I have!” Then his smile droops, and he cocks his head in bewilderment. “I have?”

 Then Elizabeth tells him her plan, and by the time she’s finished, Will is grinning just as widely as she.

***

When Will walks into Broderick’s Tavern the next night, he wonders if Elizabeth’s plan is such a good idea after all. Given that Broderick’s Tavern is located on the outskirts of Port Royal, Will can see why it’s never come to Weatherby Swann’s attention. He imagines the tavern’s owner likely wants to keep it that way, too. Will himself has never been to Broderick’s before; and after one look inside the place he resolves never to set foot in it again. Broderick’s establishment would give Tortuga a run for its money.

Trying not to wrinkle his nose against the powerful stench of unwashed bodies and rotgut lingering in the air, Will cranes his neck, focusing his attention on locating his objective. Someone elbows him in the ribs and he bites back a grunt. It’s been three days since Quincy’s assault, and still he hurts as though run over by a team of horses. However, he far prefers this to the alternative of Elizabeth coming in his stead.

It takes Will longer than expected to find what he’s looking for. And when he does, his eyes widen with surprise.

Oliver Quincy looks no more lordly than Will himself. His wig has disappeared, revealing a mop of ash blond hair, and his once-neat clothes are rumpled and dirty. A tankard of something dark sits before him, and judging by the ruddiness of his complexion and glassy, bloodshot eyes, he’s been nursing it for quite some time.

 _Well, here goes nothing_. Will squares his shoulders and marches up to Quincy’s table, ignoring the protests of his aching body.

Quincy’s head tips up. It takes his eyes a moment to find Will; when they do, they narrow with hostility. “If it isn’t Elizabeth’s knight in shining armour,” Quincy says loudly, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Here for another round, are we?”

Any qualms Will has about the plan vanishes at hearing Quincy speak Elizabeth’s name with such impudence, such derision. His palms hit the table with a solid thud as he leans toward Quincy, glaring at him with all the revulsion he can muster. It’s all he can do not to lunge at the man right then and there. But Elizabeth’s advice rings steady and clear in his head, cooling the anger searing his lungs.

 _Whatever he says, Will, you cannot lose your temper. Attacking Quincy now might jeopardize the whole plan_.

So he forces himself to inhale and quiet the ire raging within him. Even though he doesn’t feel it in the slightest, he paints a smirk on his face just because he knows it will irritate Quincy.

Sure enough, Quincy’s sneer fades to a scowl. “Get your hands off my table,” he spits, jabbing his tankard in Will’s direction.

Will doesn’t budge. “This table doesn’t belong to you. Just as Miss. Swann doesn’t belong to you.”

“Is that what this is about?” Quincy asks scornfully. “You’re here to exact vengeance upon me for impugning your honour in my pursuit of the lady Elizabeth?”

“Not if you apologise,” Will replies, pleased to find his tone even and unperturbed. “End this now, Quincy. Apologise to me, and to the Swanns. Leave the Swanns alone, sail away from Port Royal, and never return. Only then will my honour be satisfied.”

Quincy’s face flushes even darker. “You—" He shoots to his feet, then clutches at the table as the effects of his recent bout of imbibement make themselves prominently known. Fortunately for Quincy, he seems to have had ample practice functioning while inebriated. He plants his feet, eyes gradually coming back into focus. “I will sooner apologize to the German pig Parliament has the nerve to call King of England than to the likes of you.”

Will cocks his head, smile disappearing from his lips. “Then it seems we have a problem, don’t we?”

The vein at Quincy’s temple throbs at an alarming rate. “We do indeed.”

“Very well, then,” Will declares. “Oliver Quincy, you have impugned my honour and refused to apologise for it. Therefore, the restoration of my honour can only be brought about on the field of combat.”

Quincy blinks. Then he throws back his head and lets loose a peal of laughter. “Combat? You can’t be serious.”

“Oliver Quincy, I challenge you to a duel.”

All of a sudden, Quincy goes very quiet. Will’s words surge out like ripples in a pond, catching the attention of those within earshot. They watch Will and Quincy out of the corner of their eye, an air of expectation descending over them like storm clouds.

Quincy notices, too. His eyes dart back and forth, noting the spectators with obvious irritation. His mouth disappears into a crooked slash of odium. 

“Viscounts do not deign to accept precipitous dares from common blacksmiths,” Quincy says at last.

Will inclines his head ever so slightly, a fox’s smile creeping across his lips. “I suppose viscounts and cowards are the same in that regard.”

“Why, you—” Quincy starts forward as if to attack Will then and there. But he catches himself at the last moment, hanging onto the edge of the table for dear life. “I take offense to that, sir.”

“Then accept my challenge,” Will says. “Fight me sword-to-sword as a gentleman of chivalry.”

Quincy’s expression couldn’t bid Will to go to the Deuce more if he shouted it directly to his face. He glares at Will with the vehemence of a thousand suns burning in his gaze, chest heaving with the exertion of what Will assumes to be restraining himself from engaging Will in a round of fisticuffs right then and there. Though he can feel the stares of at least half a dozen people trained on him, Will doesn’t break Quincy’s glower. He trusts Elizabeth’s judgement entirely.

 _As a viscount, Quincy is bound to the gentleman’s code of honour_ , Elizabeth had explained when Will expressed doubt as to whether Quincy would accept a challenge from someone decidedly below his station. _But as an utter scoundrel, Quincy will most likely ignore the code in favour of his own agenda_. She gave a contemptuous snort at that point. _I would challenge him myself, but I doubt he would accept, the chauvinist blackguard_.

Finally, Quincy inhales a deep breath and grinds out a reply: “When?”

Concealing the triumph bursting in his chest, Will answers, “Hamilton Cay. It’s an islet off the east coast of Port Royal. Any fisherman worth his salt will know where it is.”

Quincy frowns. “I don’t recall seeing anything of the sort sailing into the harbour.”

“And you wouldn’t, thanks to the king tide,” Will responds. “Hamilton Cay, along with dozens of other little islands, are flooded for a good fortnight. When the king tide recedes, the cay is just a long stretch of sand—no trees, no boulders—it’s the perfect place for a duel. It should be dry in about a week.”

“I don’t have time to wait for sand to dry,” Quincy snaps. “We should settle this on the morrow at dayspring.”

“Governor Swann prohibited duelling in Port Royal when he first arrived here eight years ago,” Will says. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize your relationship with the good governor.”

It’s the perfect trap: Insist on duelling sooner, and Quincy would risk falling out with Weatherby Swann—an outcome Will is sure Quincy wants to avoid. Duel later, and Will could recriminate Quincy for the attack at the smithy.

“Indeed,” Quincy replies through clenched teeth. “What would you suggest, Mr. Turner?”

Will begins to ingeminate the one-week respite on which he'd planned. But then he pauses.

 _We will meet at Hamilton Cay in one week_ , he had told Elizabeth. _That’ll give me plenty of time to recover and prepare_.

 _Us_ , she corrected him matter-of-factly. _That will give us plenty of time to prepare_.

“Four days,” Will answers instead. “Any time before then and the cay will be too wet to walk on.”

Quincy considered this for a moment. Then he nods curtly. “Very well, then. Four days, Mr. Turner. Sunrise at Hamilton Cay. Don’t be late.”

Will’s chin dips. “I’ll let you get back to your drink, Lord Quincy.”

Then he turns and strides away, doing his best to hide the pain he knows Quincy is looking for as he makes his way out of the tavern for the first and last time.

***

The morning of the duel dawns bright and early. By the time Will rises from his bed, he’s already lain awake for hours, his thoughts chasing each other in circles in his head.

He can defeat Quincy. He can.

What if he brings his mates? he asks himself for the thousandth time. He absently begins pulling on his shirt, trousers, and a pair of well-worn boots. What’ll you do if Quincy decides not to fight fair?

He’ll deal with that when the time comes. Right now, he has more pressing matters to worry about.

Overwhelming nerves make it nearly impossible for Will to force down even a bite of breakfast. After several failed attempts to swallow a piece of leftover biscuit from last night’s meal, he gulps down a cup of water and sets to making himself fit for combat.

His muscles are still sore—very sore, in fact, but there’s little he can do about it now. Quincy would not settle for a longer postponement, and frankly, Will feels the same. He wants Quincy on the first ship back to England without so much as a backward glance at Port Royal.

Will rolls his shoulders and works out the knots in his neck, wincing at the pain that shoots through his joints. Thinking about his situation reasonably, it’s probably a good thing he had four days to prepare. Any time before then and he would be in too much pain to walk properly, let alone wield a sword. As Elizabeth had predicted, Quincy, in his drunken rage, bypassed all the formalities and measures usually taken when challenged to a duel. There would be no attempts to apologise, no letters sent, no meetings of seconds to negotiate peace. This is to be a swift, conclusive affair.

In the dim light of a single candle sitting on the table, he stretches out the rest of his body slowly, massaging the stiffness from his limbs and torso and examining the still-healing injuries smattering his flesh.

 _Quincy was quite clever about his attack at the smithy_ , Will thinks as he prods a particularly tender bruise on his ribs. _He didn’t touch any part of me uncovered by clothing_. He didn’t want his savagery to be immediately known, the yellow pillock.

He’s going to pay for that now. Will straps on his sword—the cutlass he uses practising with Elizabeth—as a newfound sense of determination burns through his veins. He’s going to pay for all of it.

The idea of defeating Quincy once and for all pleases Will immensely as he travels the short journey from the inn to the eastern docks. Despite being entertained by the notion, Will doesn’t let his guard down; he wouldn’t put it past Quincy to attempt some kind of ambush when he least expects it. Or, arguably worse: Elizabeth, flying down the path with a sword in her hand and every imaginable form of expletive spitting from her mouth.

He wonders how she will react when she learns he told her the wrong date for the duel.

The moment after he’d challenged Quincy, Will made a beeline for the smithy, knowing Elizabeth would be there waiting for him. He told her everything exactly as it had transpired…save for one important detail.

 _We duel at sunrise_ , he informed her. _I’ll have time to get ready_ —

 _We_ , she corrected him matter-of-factly. We _will_ _have time to get ready_.

 _Of course_ , he assured her quickly. _We_. _I-we meet at Hamilton Cay in one week_.

And she trusted him. Elizabeth proceeded to go about planning the duel with the fervent determination Will had always so admired in her. Watching her scheme with such enthusiasm, he began to regret his deception. But the second she designated herself Will’s second, any shame he’d felt vanished instantly, replaced by a stern sense of responsibility. It was his duty to protect her. If she was angry, well…he’d deal with it afterward. Elizabeth’s safety mattered more than anything else—even her utmost confidence in him.

Despite his resolution, guilt seeps into Wills gut at the thought of his trickery, uniting with his anxiety in a writhing, tumbling mass of nausea. In the liminal period before dawn, Port Royal is still, quiet—waiting for the sun to bring light and life to its inhabitants once more. Perhaps Quincy possesses some sort of moral code after all; there is no ambush even as Will arrives at the eastern docks.

As he’d arranged the day before, an old docker waits patiently for him at the wharf, carrying a lantern in his wizened hand. A rowing boat, the mode by which Will intends to make his journey to Hamilton Cay, bobs quietly in the water beside him.

Just as the last time Will conversed with him, the man speaks nothing but unintelligible French and doesn’t seem to care about anything Will tries to tell him.

“You can just give me the boat,” Will tries again. “I’ll bring it back to you, I promise. Here, how about I pay you for it?”

Once again, the man shakes his head and jabs a finger at the little craft. He utters something that is unmistakably a command, but still Will hesitates.

Elizabeth would understand him. Will knows she learned French and Latin and all those languages he personally thinks are rubbish but the English gentry seem to believe are a vital element of a young person’s academic career. But Elizabeth isn’t here right now, and Will can see faint light dawning on the horizon resting far out to sea. Dawn is approaching Port Royal. Approaching Hamilton Cay. Will he?

“Fine.” Will grabs the hilt of his sword to steady it and half-steps, half-falls into the floating vessel. He takes a moment to regain his balance on the rocking surface before glancing up at the docker. “There. Is this what you want?”

Apparently placated, the docker leaps into the craft with a considerable amount of more grace than Will, and unravels its mooring line from the bollard,

“ _Bon. Asseyez-vous, monsieur_.” The docker gestures at the seat behind Will. Will takes the seat, careful not to jab himself in the midriff with the hilt of his sword.

Without another word, the man hooks his lantern on a pole jutting out from the prow of the boat and plops down on the front seat. With a fluid ease borne of decades of repetition, the man fits the oars into the rowlocks and begins to paddle. Soon, the boat is cutting through the water at an even, almost noiseless speed Will couldn’t dream of replicating.

Will glances back at the docks, half expecting to Elizabeth to be standing there in her nightgown—or, even more likely—commandeering one of the moored ships to chase Will down. The thought of Elizabeth shouting orders at slumbering sailors, rousing them from their beds and commanding their vessel as well as any naval officer, makes a smile appear on Will’s face. Elizabeth is certainly capable of it—he has no doubt she’s capable of anything and everything to which she sets her mind.

 _Then why did you lie to her_?  

Because she isn’t duelling Quincy, Will is. This isn’t her fight, and this won’t be her burden to bear should something go wrong. Will turns away from the docks—away from Port Royal and from Elizabeth—and faces eastward, the direction from which the sun will soon rise. The direction in which Hamilton Cay and his adversary lie.

Not for the first time, Will allows himself to imagine the possibility of defeat, and what might happen should it occur. The probability of Quincy letting him return to Port Royal unscathed is doubtful at best. However, one of the gruesome alternatives seems exceptionally merciless, even for Quincy. Would the viscount really murder someone in cold blood? Would he?

Will’s taken lives before, of course, but every killing had been out of self-defense—executed during he-or-they moments in which he barely had time to implement his decision, let alone think it through first. To look a disarmed man in the eye and deliberately put a bullet through his skull? Or perhaps even more disturbingly, run him through with a blade? The idea evokes a sour taste on his tongue.

The faint glow illuminating the distant edge of the world heats to a soft golden smear, bruising the clouds with an exquisite orangish-pink hue. The top of the sun just peeks over the horizon, so radiant Will has to look away, blinking white spots from his vision. With more than just the lantern’s meagre luminescence to guide the way, Will can make out the many islands peppering the sea, some large enough to host dense groves of trees, others so small they barely constitute as land. It’s going to be a lovely day, Will thinks. No chance of a storm blowing in and waylaying his plans.

Will knows the king tide has receded by now—he’s observed it ebb from Port Royal’s shores for how many years now?—but his certitude doesn’t prevent him from worrying as time stretches on without catching sight of Hamilton Cay. He watches the docker anxiously, who’s struck up a merry tune he whistles in time to his oar strikes.

Will leans forward and clears his throat. “We are headed toward Hamilton Cay, yes?”

The man grins toothily but never once ceases rowing. “ _Oui, monsieur. Ne_ _t'inquiète pas: André connaît le chemin, entendu_?”

Feeling only slightly reassured, Will leans back, picking absently at the pommel of his weapon.

The sun is almost a full circle in the sky by the time Will spots Hamilton Cay in the near distance.

“Le voila, monsieur!” the docker cries. “Comme je l'ai dit, André connait le chemin!”

Will lets out a sigh of relief, then sits up straighter as two thin figures, barely more than silhouettes against the dayspring sigh, come into view. Quincy, it seems, has arrived early. Will doesn’t know whether to perceive this new development as an advantage or a disadvantage. By the time Will draws near enough to catch a glimpse of their features, the anxiety roiling within him has stilled considerably.

Quincy is no undead pirate; he isn’t even a living one. He’s merely a spoiled, selfish viscount who’s stepped over the line, and Will is here to shove him back over to his side. And Will won’t need to take his life to do it.

The moment Quincy’s pale blue eyes come into view, they lock onto Will and remain there. Will meets Quincy’s gaze with a quiet, steady confidence until, when the viscount finally accepts Will isn’t going to yield, gives him a haughty sneer and looks away.

By the time the rowboat washes up on shore, Will has a handful of coins ready in the palm of his hand. “Er... _ici_ ,” he tries, proffering the coins uncertainly. “ _Merci, merci mille fois, monsieur. Eh...Je te donnerai le reste quand tu me_ _ramèneras à_ Port Royal, _entendu_?”

“ _À votre service_ , Monsieur Turner,” the man responds. “ _Je t'attendrai. Bon courage_!”

Will gives the docker a final nod and turns to face Quincy.

“My, my,” the viscount calls the moment Will’s feet hit the shore. He ambles toward Will with all the leisure of a man taking a stroll in the park. He had the sense, at least, to forsake his wig for the sake of practicality, though the rest of his attire seems as garish and expensive as usual. “Do mine eyes deceive me, or have you really chosen a decrepit old codger as your second?”

“I don’t need a second,” Will replies, striding over to where Quincy waits.

“Hm,” Quincy says. “I’m surprised Ms. Swann didn’t volunteer for the job.” Something in Will’s expression must give him away, because the viscount smiles. “So she has volunteered. And yet...” Then understanding dawns on his face and he shakes his head, mockingly clicking his tongue. “She doesn’t know you’re here. I’ll wonder how she’ll feel when she learns her beloved as abandoned her.”

“I haven’t abandoned her,” Will blurts out, face growing hot. “I’m here to protect her—to get rid of you.”

“You really think you could kill me?” Quincy scoffs. “What would little Elizabeth think of her noble defender then?”

“Elizabeth would think I don’t have to kill you to knock you on your arse.”

“Oh, but you will have to kill me.” Gone is the spiteful mirth present only moments before; Quincy’s eyes are cold now, and hard as ice—void of everything but ruthless determination and cunning. “Because as long as I am alive, the pursuit of my objective also lives on. And because of all the time and effort you've wasted me, I came to a little decision last night: It occurred to me that, while you did play a major role in the escape of the notorious pirate Jack Sparrow, Ms. Swann was also actively involved in the crime. So involved, in fact, I believe the same charges appurtenant to your misdeeds would also apply to your darling Elizabeth.”

 _Same charges_... “You wouldn’t,” Will growls, blood thundering in his head so loudly he can hardly think, hardly breathe. The idea of Elizabeth—bound, convicted, dangling from a hangman’s noose—steals the air from his lungs, replacing it with acid and stone, fire and fury. “Elizabeth is—”

“Is more valuable to me alive than dead, yes,” Quincy cuts in. “But you know what else is valuable, Mr. Turner? Money. Particularly when used to pay off large debts owed to important men in important places.”

“Money?” Will barks. “You’re doing all this for Elizabeth’s money?” Honestly, after all he’s witnessed and experienced regarding wealth he shouldn’t be so appalled. He’s heard Port Royal's cleric state it often enough: _For the love of money is the root of all evil_.   

Quincy purses his lips but otherwise seems disconcerted. “Among other facets, yes. Security, prestige, influence—there are many benefits to being the husband of a governor’s daughter.”

“If you touch her, I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Kill me?” Quincy’s smile widens, igniting a spark in his eyes like the fuse of a cannon. He spreads his arms wide, almost inviting Will to attack him. “Here we stand, Turner! Upon ground made sacred by the promise of bloodshed. Try as you might to spill my blood, blacksmith, because I assure you now: You will not gain another chance.”

Will believes him. Quincy has told him too much to allow Will to return to Port Royal with his heart still beating.

Inhaling a deep breath, Will draws his blade, tugs off his baldric, and swings back his arm to toss the belt on the ground. The old docker grabs it from him before it leaves Will’s hand and gives him a reassuring pat on the back.

WIll offers him a nod. “Thank you.” At least he has one ally here, even if it isn’t the one he truly wants by his side.

Quincy has removed to his second perhaps fifteen paces away. He tugs off his justaucorps with a flourish and hands it off to the man, who just so happens to be the sailor from the night at the forge.

“Where’s your friend?” Will calls to the man. He doesn’t reply, but hands Quincy an elegant leather scabbard. From it Quincy withdraws a magnificent basket-hilted sabre, its polished blade glinting in the morning light. Even from where Will stands, he can tell it’s a fine blade, probably crafted by some master bladesmith in Europe. Again, gratitude for Elizabeth’s knowledge of British aristocracy wells up inside him.

 _According to tradition, you would use one of a pair of identical duelling swords. But since I doubt Quincy cares for either tradition or equitability on the field of combat, I would use something sturdy and reliable, something you know well_.

Had Will followed duelling praxis and chosen a customary shortsword or rapier, he would be hopelessly outmatched regardless of fencing skill. Quincy’s sabre would cleave a delicate rapier blade in half with a single blow.

Will gives his cutlass a spin, relishing the familiarity of it. His own weapon would serve him well.

Sword gripped loosely in his hand, Will starts toward Quincy, boots crunching on the hard-packed sand as he draws away from the muddy shoreline. There is no neutral party in this duel, no arbitrator to dictate when the duel begins and how it shall be fought. It is all incumbent upon the combatants; they are each judge, jury, and executioner. They decide when to start and when to end. When to be honourable and when to be honourless. When to show mercy and when give none.       

They decide who lives to see another day, and perhaps who returns to Port Royal a lifeless corpse.

Will doesn’t consider himself much of a philosopher. Deep thinking was never of any use to him, when all of his concentration usually lay in finding a way to keep bread on the table and a roof over his head. But now, questions trickle unbidden through his mind like rivers: _Will I live to see another dawn such as this? Will I live to see Elizabeth again? Will she ever forgive me for deceiving her_?

He can only pray she will.

But now is not the time for distractions. He doesn’t know how Elizabeth will respond to his trickery. He doesn’t know how a man like Quincy could be so heartless, so selfish and vain and cruel. But he does know one thing, one thing that shines within him like the lantern of a lighthouse, bright and unwavering even in the darkest of storms:

He will fight. He will fight with all he has. And he will vanquish Quincy.

As long as he is alive, Elizabeth will not suffer a criminal’s fate.

Will takes a deep breath. When he exhales, he blows everything—his fear, his doubts, his Elizabeth—completely out of his mind. A single thought consumes now, a desire deep and quiet and tinged red with bridled rage:

Defeat Oliver Quincy.

 _Keep a weather eye on the horizon, my love. I am coming home to you_.

Almost as if partaking in a dance, Will and his opponent begin circling like wolves, one man evaluating the other with focused calculation. A cool breeze wisps over Will’s skin, chilling sweat he wasn’t aware had sprung up on his skin.

Quincy stills—a predator ready to pounce. “Any last words, Turner?”

Will tilts his sword to the best angle at which he judges he’ll meet Quincy’s impending strike. “Only that one way of another, you won’t be around to hear them.”

“We’ll see,” Quincy replies mildly. Then he springs forward, blade jabbing in for the finishing blow.

***

Will has to admit: Quincy is better than he anticipated. He doesn’t duel like Norrington, whose formal technique reflected the neat, proper methods of Naval drills. But he doesn’t duel like Jack Sparrow, either, whose technique was so horrendous it left Will wondering how he’d made it long as he did. Quincy is somewhere between the two, not sloppy, but certainly not refined either.

After Quincy’s initial advancement, he immediately retracts into a defensive position. From there, he engages Will in a series of exploratory manoeuvres, testing Will’s skill, ascertaining his strengths and weaknesses as any astute swordsman should. Will represses the urge to hurry forth, disarm Quincy, and be done with it. If he’s learned anything from swordplay, it is that a hasty swordsman is a beaten one. He doesn’t want to find out what would happen should the viscount get the upper hand. So he quells his impulse and instead concentrates on answering Quincy’s measured attack. Eventually, however, Quincy pulls back, studying Will with a critical eye.  

“So you aren’t altogether helpless,” he remarks. “I’m impressed. Well, less disgusted at least.”

Will huffs. Why is everyone so surprised he, a known swordsmith, can use a blade as well as he can make one?

“You never know when you might need to defend yourself against conceited, toffee-nosed dastards.”

“I suppose not,” Quincy concedes.

His sabre whips around, trying to catch Will off-guard, but he’s ready for it. Their blades meet with a resounding _clang_ , and already Will can tell Quincy is no longer playing around. His onslaught batters Will ruthlessly, a squall of forceful slashes and lightning-fast jabs upon which Will has to concentrate intensely to keep from being properly skivered. But while Quincy fights powerfully, he lacks the discipline Will possesses after years of constant, rigorous practice. And perhaps even more importantly, he lacks the temperament. Judging by Quincy’s previous behavior when provoked, Will is willing to bet Quincy won’t be able to stand a drawn-out duel—he’ll want it done and over with before fatigue can steal his strength and agility.

Indeed, when Will doesn’t fall after a bout of exhaustive movements that, if Will was any lesser of a swordsman, would’ve brought him to his knees, Quincy’s once admirable technique begins to waver. He is not so watchful, nor so proficient as before, his blade flailing about like tack caught by a strong wind. And that’s when Will makes his move. With a neat flick of his wrist, he sends Quincy’s blade flying out of reach. Then, as the viscount scrambles, Will trips him with a swift kick to the ankle. Quincy lurches to the sand with an ungentlemanly curse.

Will’s ribs throb as if they were being beaten by a sledgehammer, but he barely feels it through the thunderous heat of quickened blood surging within his veins.

“Give up, Quincy!”

The viscount scrambles backward, glancing about for some means of escape. He looks back at Will with wide eyes, blood dripping down his pale, haggard face. “Please, don’t kill me,” he pleads, throwing one arm up in supplication. “I’ll do anything, I swear it.”

Revulsion writhes in Will like a brood of snakes. He shakes his head in disgust. “Coward,” he spits out, whipping his cutlass back and forth. “Get up and face your defeat as a man of honour.”

Then Quincy smiles. “Better a coward than a corpse.”

A flash of movement, then Will is blinded. He stumbles back with a grunt of surprise, clawing at his eyes. Sand fills his vision, stinging his eyes so badly he cannot keep them open no matter how hard he tries. Will swings his sword wildly back and forth to keep Quincy at arm’s length, but it’s no good—Quincy knocks the blade from his hand with one well-aimed blow. Then he reels back and punches Will in the jaw.

A burst of light, a muffled crack, a sickening pain. The tang of blood fills his mouth and the world tips beneath him. Will falls back, shaking his head to clear the spots dancing in his vision. Another blow catches his cheekbone, and Will nearly hits the ground.

“Now that I don’t have to worry about dirtying that pretty little face of yours, this is so much more enjoyable.”

Will spits out a mouthful of blood and, abandoning any pretense of decency, charges at Quincy with a feral growl. They hit the sand with a muffled thud. Before he can recover, Will drives a fist into his face. Quincy’s head snaps to the side.

“That was for Elizabeth,” Will pants. _Crack_. Quincy’s skin breaks beneath Will’s fury. “And that was for me.”

A guttural scream wrenches from Quincy like the cry of a fallen beast, and he heaves with all his might, shoving both hands into Will’s chest. Air rushes from his lungs, and Will’s hand instinctively moves to protect his injured ribs. The single instant of distraction is enough for Quincy to gather his legs beneath him and throw Will off balance.

Will immediately rolls to the side, out of Quincy’s reach, and staggers to his feet. Whatever force protecting him from discomfort earlier is ebbing away; every breath he takes seems to be drawn through a curtain of scorching flame. He expects Quincy to be on him in an instant, but all Quincy seems capable of his respiring—and it’s a good thing, too, because Will is in no condition to fend him off. For several precious moments, all they do is wheeze, exhaustion threatening to beat them both into submission.

“Ribs aren’t quite healed, I notice,” Quincy remarks, patting his face with his sleeve. “I wonder what I could do about that…How does a punctured lung sound to you?”

“How about I break your jaw,” Will retorts through a cough, “so you’ll shut up for once.”

He needs to end this now, before any real damage can be done.

 _Where is my sword_?   

Apparently Quincy has the same idea, because he’s stumbling toward something—Will’s sowrd, lying in the sand not ten paces away. Will launches himself at Quincy with a shout. But this time Quincy is ready for him, and he twists as Will catches hold of him, shaking Will off like a bothersome insect. He snatches the sword and whirls around just as Will collides with him, arms outstretched.

Searing, all-consuming agony devours Will’s right leg, tinting his vision red. He’s been burned—all a part of the job—but this…never before has an injury rendered him so utterly and immediately helpless. He reels back with a strangled cry, clutching at the wound the cutlass’s blade left in his thigh just above the knee. Nausea and pain crash over Will in jagged waves. His good leg wobbles as he limps backward, threatening to give out on him at any second.

Quincy glances down at the blade in his hand, stained red with blood, then back up at Will. Then the same fiendish grin from the night at the smithy spreads across his face. He tosses aside the blade, strides up to Will, and strikes him across the face.

Will’s vision goes black.

“I have to say, Turner, I’m going to enjoy this.” Quincy’s voice filters into Will’s awareness from the end of a long tunnel. “Just as I’m going to enjoy tormenting little Elizabeth and her idiot father until their dying days.”

Pain and anger sharpen Will’s awareness, and he clings to them unremittingly, lets them tether him to consciousness like the lines mooring boats to Port Royal’s docks. He growls and plants his hands in the dirt. He curls his finger’s like claws and pushes himself up.

Then Quincy hits him again.

The world spins into darkness and fire. Before Will can so much as lift his face, Quincy seizes hold of his shirt and hauls him upright. A red-hot awl pierces Will’s leg, and blackness frames his eyesight. He lets out a choked bellow, tugging weakly against Quincy’s grip.

“What do you think Weatherby Swann will give me to spare his daughter the noose. His title? His money?” He shakes Will, and the ground beneath him sways like the deck of a gale-tossed ship. Will tries his very best not to scream. Hot blood trickles down his leg, which trembles uncontrollably now. He doesn’t believe he could stand if he tried. “It’s a pity you won’t be around to watch me destroy them.”

He raises a fist. Will forces himself to look at Quincy, to stare directly into his eyes.

 _I’m sorry Elizabeth_.

“Oliver Quincy!”

Will’s blood freezes. He knows that voice. He would know it anywhere. Surely blood loss must be making him delirious.

But Quincy lowers his fist, though he doesn’t release Will’s shirtfront. “Elizabeth! Come to watch the show, have you?”

Braid whipping in the briny sea air, Elizabeth Swann storms toward them with all the might and magnificence of a king, such a terrible expression wrought upon her face that she is no longer purely Elizabeth Swann, governor’s daughter and citizen of Port Royal. She is the most dreadful pirate to ever sail the Seven Seas, whose wake is drenched in the blood of her foes and paved with the wealth of all the treasure she has and will ever reave. She is a terrible sea goddess, ascended from her thalassic realm to exact vengeance upon her enemies. She is a hurricane—merciless, lawless, and heedless—come to destroy them all. She is Elizabeth Swann, judge, jury, and executioner—what can Will possibly do but hope and pray for forgiveness?

As Elizabeth makes her way toward them, she unsheathes her sword from the baldric looped over one shoulder. Though Will’s right eye is swelling so rapidly he can barely see through it, he swears the ground trembles beneath her feet, he swears the tide stills as she begins to speak in a voice like rain and wind and thunder:

“Oliver Quincy, you have, with your wits and conscience fully about you, impugned my honour in the most despicable manner. Apologies for your multitude of iniquities have not been forthcoming. Nor has your behavior reformed to suggest penitence of any sort. The wickedness of your wrongdoings against the Swann family, against Will Turner, and against the whole of Port Royal are too severe to disregard. Therefore I, Elizabeth Swann, have no choice but to challenge you to a duel. Here and now, I invoke the right to restore my honour on the field of combat. The victor will lose nothing, the vanquished, everything. We shall fight until one of us can fight no longer—whether this transpires by surrender or by death, so be it.”

Silence. Will can sense Quincy’s growing disbelief.  Then: “Elizabeth, dear, perhaps you don’t understand how duels work. I’ve already won.” He gives Will another shake.

Elizabeth’s expression is hewn of iron and inferno. “You might have bested Will, but you have not bested me.”

Finally, comprehension of what is about to occur dawns on Will’s sluggish brain. He tries to move toward her, tries to do something, _anything_ besides grind his knees into the dirt like a common beggar, but Quincy is too strong and he too weak. All he can do is call out a single word, the syllables scratching against his throat like sandpaper. “Elizabeth…”

Her gaze flickers to his. In the infinitesimal second their eyes meet, Will is struck by the sheer intensity of her gaze, so profound, so real he’s left breathless. Anger, betrayal, pity, resolve—he can’t even begin to describe what else resides within her.

Quincy distracts him by throwing back his head and letting loose a peal of laughter. “Come now, Elizabeth.” He says the name the way one would address a pet or small child. “Surely, you cannot believe you are capable of defeating me.”

“Defeat you? No.” Any gentleness Will had detected in her stare is gone—drowned by wrath and ruin. Elizabeth extends her blade toward Quincy, teeth bared in the grin of a lioness before she devours her prey. “I will destroy you.”

The viscount glances down at Will, then back up at Elizabeth. “Very well, then.” He shoves Will aside.

Will barely catches himself before he ends up with a mouthful of sand. A strangled cry escapes from between clenched teeth as he curls into a ball, hand clamped around his bleeding thigh. Quincy looks back at him and smiles. “Sit back, Mr. Turner,” he says. “The fun has only just begun.”

Will can do no more than grimace as Quincy snatches up his sword from the ground and faces Elizabeth, who stands in a classic defensive position. “I really wish it didn’t have to end like this,” he sighs. “I really did admire you.”

Elizabeth’s eyes flash with indignance. “I can’t say the sentiment is reciprocated.”

“Come now, Elizabeth,” Quincy scolds, spinning his blade in a circle. “Where are your manners?”

“It’s _Miss Swann_ ,” she replies, raises her sword, and charges.

***

Elizabeth’s cutlass meets Quincy’s with the full force of her rage. Quincy’s eyes widen with obvious surprise, and he nearly gives beneath her onslaught. For a moment, Elizabeth hopes it’s already over. Then Quincy seems to remember himself, and he pushes against Elizabeth with a feral growl. Elizabeth staggers back, boots digging into the soft sand. Regaining her balance, Elizabeth brings her sword up and advances again—overhand, underhand, feint right, jab left—just as she’d practised a hundred times. Quincy parries her attack, sneer twisted into a scowl of concentration. Satisfaction blazes through Elizabeth as she drives Quincy back, back, back, with relentless, powerful strokes.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers Will—somehow he’s standing, and facing Quincy’s second. The man is moving toward Elizabeth, but Will intercepts him before he can get too close. A deep red blotch staining a makeshift bandage wrapped around his right thigh catches Elizabeth’s attention before she forces herself to concentrate on the matter at hand. He’s standing, he’s walking. He’s all right.

But that fleeting moment of distraction costs her dearly. She lunges forward, sword plunging down in an arc she hopes will knock the blade cleanly out of Quincy’s hand. But rather than deflecting her strike, Quincy sidesteps it, allowing Elizabeth’s cutlass to whistle harmlessly by. Hopelessly overextended, Elizabeth barrels forward like an enraged beast in a bullfight. She trips over Quincy’s outstretched foot with an outraged grunt. When she whirls around, blade arcing up to deflect a blow she’s certain is coming, Quincy knocks it from her grasp with his own weapon. Then he sends her sprawling to the ground with an expert kick to the rear.

Spitting sand, Elizabeth rolls over and tries to clamber to her feet, but Quincy’s booted foot rams down on her shoulder and presses her into the shore. Then Elizabeth is staring down the blade of his sabre.

“Well done, Elizabeth. Well done.” Quincy smiles and waggles his sword tauntingly. “Your skill is admirable for a woman. Now why don’t you surrender, and we can all just go back to Port Royal, hm? It’s clear you are no match for me.”

Elizabeth looks Quincy straight in the eye and expectorates with all the hatred she can muster.

Though the spittle lands nowhere near him, Quincy’s face contorts with apoplectic rage. Elizabeth manages a self-satisfied smirk before Quincy strikes her. Elizabeth’s head snaps to the side.

“That’ll teach you, you little— _ack_!” He goes tumbling midsentence. As he falls, Elizabeth releases his ankle and springs to her feet. She snatches her weapon from the ground just as Quincy regains his footing, pallid white splotching the crimson of his face. For a moment, they are both still, one blade extended toward the other in classic defensive positions. Now, though, Quincy regards her with a newfound expression—not respect, certainly, but comprehension. Comprehension of what she is, and of what she is willing to be.

“Clever, Miss Swann.” He wipes his brow with his sleeve. “Clever.”

“I will fight as I am fought, Viscount,” Elizabeth says. She means it as a warning and she hopes he takes it as one.

“Noted.” Then, without warning, he strikes. Elizabeth repels his assault, but this time, she doesn’t persist with an advance of her own. She settles into a rhythm of deflection and avoidance, evading blows rather than parrying directly, defending rather than attacking. Quincy must notice the change in strategy, because his glower softens. He draws back his blade, and Elizabeth does the same, trying to conceal how hard she’s panting.

“Yield, Elizabeth,” he says. “You cannot continue this forever. Admit defeat, and perhaps I will consider being lenient to dear William.”

Will. He’s on his knees—when did that happen?—and behind him, Quincy’s second brandishes something with which Elizabeth is all too familiar. A pistol. Of course, Elizabeth should’ve known Quincy wouldn’t play fairly.

Even so, she glares at Quincy, the ire of a thousand suns burning in her gaze. “Coward.”

“Winner.” Quincy gestures at Elizabeth’s blade with his own. “Now lay down your sword, Miss Swann. I will not ask again.”

Elizabeth risks a peek at Will. _Are you ready_? she asks.

His chin dips barely a fraction of an inch. _As I’ll ever be_.

Then he surges to his feet.

Elizabeth whirls on Quincy, pulling her cutlass back and bringing it down on his sabre as hard as she can. Quincy jerks away and reels backward, but this time Elizabeth pursues. In a movement made swift with practice, she alters her grip on her blade and strikes again, overhand, then underhand—but she’s careful not to surpass her natural reach. She doubts Quincy will be forbearing if he manages to disarm her again.   

When Quincy’s blade crashes down on Elizabeth’s in an onslaught of his own, she staggers beneath the impact of it. Eyes narrowed, Quincy presses forward, using his larger size and strength to his advantage. His blows come hard and heavy. Elizabeth is forced t ogive ground, consigned to basic defence and retreat. There is a wild, nearly crazed light in Quincy’s gaze as he fights—desperation, Elizabeth realises. His assault is brutal, but it’s careless—frantic, nearly. Rather like Elizabeth’s technique when she fences with Will. As Quincy’s attack deteriorates, becoming more and more frenzied, Elizabeth conserves her energy as much as she can. She searches for an opportunity, a single flaw she can exploit to bring her adversary to his knees once and for all.

She finds it when Quincy rushes in with a furious roar, both hands gripping his sword to deliver a devastating final blow. As the sabre hurtles toward her, she dodges around and below the weapon’s arc, slashing Quincy across the ribs with her own blade. Quincy curses and claps an arm over his chest, sweeping his weapon back and forth to keep Elizabeth at bay.

Elizabeth circles, wary of the sword still held firmly in Quincy’s hand. “That was for Will.”

Quincy growls and recoils, adjusting his grip to swing the blade skyward. As Quincy’s arm begins to curve up, Elizabeth strikes the forte of his blade with all her might. The weapon clatters from Quincy’s grasp.

The force of impact sends Quincy lurching backward. Before he can recover, Elizabeth strikes him across the face with the pommel of her weapon. He crumples to the ground in a heap.

Elizabeth jabs her cutlass at him, close enough to defend herself should Quincy attempt to retaliate, but not within grabbing distance. She’s breathing so hard she can barely speak, but she manages nonetheless. “Surrender, Quincy! I will not be as kind as Will.”

His head tips up, and Elizabeth is pleased to note a jagged cut where she struck him. “I’d rather feast with dogs, villanous brat!”

“And you will. I’ll make sure of it.” Elizabeth knows, she knows she shouldn’t take her eyes off Quincy, but she must look, she must make sure…

“Will?” She risks a hasty, miniscule peek to her left. Will is clawing his way to his feet, the body of Quincy’s second lying motionless on the ground beside him.

Will’s eyes widen. “Elizabeth, look out!”

She’s already moving. With the flat of her blade, she knocks aside Quincy’s sand-filled hand. With the other, she reels back and clouts him on the jaw. Quincy grunts, blood flying from his mouth, and sprawls across the ground, insensible.

The satisfaction of hitting Quincy far outweighs the smarting pain of Elizabeth’s abraded knuckles. “I told you, Viscount. I am not as kind as Will.”

Will hobbles to her side, clutching a pistol in one hand. He brandishes it at Quincy. “This was your idea of honour? Shoot me if you can’t win fairly?”

Quincy rubs his jaw, scowling defiantly. “Honour is a weak man’s game.”

“And yet here we stand,” Will counters. “And there you lie.”

The viscount bares bloodstained teeth. “Don’t get high and mighty with me, boy. I defeated you, honour or not. You’re no more a victor than the German imbecile who sits on the throne is king.”

Tensing for another fight, Will takes a deep breath, but Elizabeth places a hand on his arm. “Will, look!”

In the distance, one of the Royal Navy’s ships bobs in the water like an oversized cormorant. Approaching the islet, a jolly-boat—how did Elizabeth miss it?—hastens toward them at a speed Elizabeth wasn’t previous aware ship’s vessels could attain. Following behind is another jolly boat, though not at the same swiftness as the other craft. Elizabeth doesn’t have to see the closest vessel’s occupants to know who is coming ashore.

“Elizabeth!” Governor Swann hops out of the jolly nearly before it runs aground. He hurries toward her, slippers gaining little purchase on the soft earth. “Elizabeth, are you all right?”

“I’m well, Father. I—” Elizabeth is abruptly cut off by her father’s crushing embrace. The scent of camphor and parchment fills Elizabeth’s nose, and she breathes it in, calm sweeping through her like a gentle breeze.

“Thank goodness you’re all right.” He pulls away and looks  her up and down, frowning at the cutlass in her hand. “What is the meaning of this, Elizabeth? Why are you—” Then his eyes fall on Quincy. “You!”

There is a distinct edge of malice in his voice that surprises Elizabeth. “Father—”

He points at Quincy, shaking his hand condemningly. “Guards, arrest that man!”

The soldiers move forward to apprehend Quincy, but he jerks away with a hiss. “Unhand me! I am—”

“You will hold your tongue, sir!” Father cuts in, drawing himself up to his full height. He cuts quite an intimidating figure for a man clad in nothing but his nightwear. “Lest you be bound and gagged like the common miscreant you are.”

Elizabeth tugs insistently at her father’s sleeve. “Father—”

Father inhales deeply, some of the color receding from his cheeks. “It seems your premonitions regarding Lord Quincy were correct, Elizabeth. Apparently, he has garnered quite a name for himself back in England as a notorious gambler and rabble-rouser. I received a letter from Lord Methuen just last night.” He scowls at Quincy, who merely stares sullenly into the distance. “Your father was a great man, Oliver. And you squandered everything he worked for—his business, his land, his fortune—to what end?”

“My father never cared about me,” Quincy snarls. “He never cared about my mother, not even as she wasted away, longing for a husband who was never there for her. She died a lonely, heartbroken woman, and he barely took the time to attend her funeral!” He struggles against the grips of his captors, but they do not yield. The soldiers grip Quincy’s shoulders and push him down into the shore so firmly his knees disappear.

“I was glad he died,” Quincy hisses. Gone is the cool, collected nobleman. This is a madman, a creature more revolting, more wild than any pirate Elizabeth has ever encountered. “I hope he can see me now, wherever he is. I hope he knows just how much his only son hates him!”

Will eyes Quincy warily, one arm wrapped protectively around her waist. “All this because of one man’s bitterness.”

Elizabeth slips her own arm around him. “Are you all right?”

He attempts a smile, though its scarcely visible through the swelling of his eyes and cheekbone. “Yes.”

There’s so much more they need to discuss, and Elizabeth can see it all in his expression. But for now, she simply nods. _Later_ , she says. _Later we’ll talk_.

“Your hatred for your father didn’t have to entail crippling debt,” Father says, shaking his head mournfully. “You could’ve grown the company, made it better than it ever was. Now, everything you had is gone, and you have no one to blame but yourself.”

“You thought marriage to me would save you from prison,” Elizabeth says. Then, in a more scandalised tone: “You were willing to kill a man to save your own skin!”

Quincy doesn’t answer. He only glares at them, pale blue eyes cold and hard with loathing, as the soldiers haul him to his feet and march him over to one of the jolly-boats.  
“Up to your usual antics, I see,” Father remarks, examining Will with a half-critical, half-paternal eye.

Will’s gaze flickers down to the pistol in his hand, then back up at Elizabeth. There is no shame, no fear in his tone when he replies: “Aye, sir.”

Elizabeth holds her breath, peering at her father beseechingly. Surely, Father wouldn’t consider punishing Will now, after all he’s been through. Hamilton Cay isn’t technically under the governor’s jurisdiction, after all, and therefore—

“We’ll sort this all out back in Port Royal,” Father sighs. “There’s a surgeon waiting aboard the _Melusine_. He’ll tend to that leg of yours.”

Will bobs his head, some of the tension melting from his frame. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll thank you to refrain from engaging in illicit activities hereafter,” Father replies archly. “I’ve had enough excitement in this lifetime, if it’s all the same to you.” He gestures at Elizabeth turning toward the jolly-boat in which he’d arrived. “Elizabeth, come with me, dearest. There’s a seat aboard the jolly for you.”

Elizabeth doesn’t move. “And a seat for Will as well?”

Father casts her a quick smile, which Elizabeth returns in kind. “Yes, there is room for dear Will. Come along, both of you. I expect you both have quite a tale to tell me.”

Arm in arm, Elizabeth and Will make their way slowly toward the jolly. It takes a moment to get Will into the craft, thanks to his injury, but with the help of a few crew members they manage to lower him down on the seat. Elizabeth plops herself down next to him, and to his credit Father doesn’t protest. Soon they are bound west for Port Royal, leaving the violence and acrimony of Hamilton Cay behind them for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments/kudos if you liked! The next and final chapter should be posted the last week of March (the 31st).


	4. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Yea, and if some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep,_

_Even so I will endure…_

_For already I have suffered full much_

_And much have I toiled in perils of waves and war._

_Let this be added to the tale of those_.

Homer, _The Odyssey_

* * *

**_Three weeks later..._ **

****

Elizabeth doesn’t know what to expect when she walks into Fort Charles’s prison. The smell alone is enough to convince her she never wants to set foot in the jail again, let alone be detained behind its iron bars. Her father, of course, had offered to chaperone her, even insisted on it. but Elizabeth had stubbornly refused his company, no matter how much she actually desired it. Who is she if she can put a man behind bars, but refuse to face him alone there?

A guard ushers her wordlessly before a dank cell and retreats to stand a courteous distance away. Elizabeth thanks him, then looks down at the man sitting in the cell. “Hello, Oliver.”

He glances up, and a grin spreads slowly across his face. “Queen Elizabeth Swann.”

The three weeks of imprisonment have not been kind to Oliver Quincy. He wears the same shirt and breeches he wore at the duel, and his hair, once ash blond, is matted and stained dirt-brown. His already pale skin is nearly translucent now, gaunt and carved with deep lines and hollows. Incarceration has drained away every drop of pampered, privileged snobbery from him, leaving a bitter husk of a man behind.

“You’ve come at last,” he murmurs, ogling up at her as if in disbelief. “Am I to assume, then, that I’ve been tried and convicted without my knowledge?”

“The governor has been corresponding with the territory’s magistrate. They’ve arranged for you to be shipped back to England. You’ll stand trial there.”

A muscle in Quincy’s jaw twitches, but otherwise he doesn’t react. “And Walter and Morris? What is to become of them?”

“Your accomplices have not been sighted in Port Royal since the duel,” Elizabeth replies. The sailor who’d acted as Quincy’s second disappeared before soldiers could apprehend him. She doubts neither he nor his companion will venture to show their faces on the island again, if they know what’s good for them. “The rest of your crew deny any knowledge of your plans. They set sail for the Americas a fortnight ago.”   

Quincy is silent for so long Elizabeth wonders if his wits remain altogether about him. “It is to the Fleet I am condemned, then,” he mumbles at last. “Debtor’s prison for Lord Oliver Quincy the Third, Viscount of Avonshire.”

Though it’s been many years since Elizabeth lived in England, she remembers the Fleet well enough. Its reputation as hell on earth is well-known all over the London.

Elizabeth did not enter Fort Charles expecting pity to be chief among her sentiments toward Oliver Quincy, but it’s present nonetheless. She moves closer, standing so she almost touches the cell gate. “Why didn’t you ask my father for help?” she enquires. “Surely, he would have lent you the funds had you asked.”

“I could no more ask Weatherby Swann for money than I could ask God Himself,” Quincy retorts. “My father borrowed a hefty sum from him to start his company. He hadn’t yet paid it off by the time he died, and I wasn’t about to ask for money from a man I already owe.”

“You could have explained your situation,” Elizabeth points out. She shifts her dress and sits gracefully on the cold, grime-coated floor, skirt splayed out around her in a sea of lace, ribbons, and silk. “My father is a generous man. He would have forgiven your debt had you asked. He might’ve even remitted the sum you owe Lord Methuen.”

“And Lord Dodington? Lord Astley? Fairfax? Byron? Yonge? Will Weatherby recompense them, too?” Quincy gives a wry, bitter smile. “The king of England himself wouldn’t sustain the arrears I’ve incurred.”

Elizabeth is quiet for a moment, studying Quincy through the bars of his cell. At last, she says, “Is there no one in all the world who will help you repay your debt?”

Quincy’s smile fades. “The Quincy reputation died alongside my father, Elizabeth. Marriage to you was my last hope.” His fingers, smeared with dirt and dried blood, curl around bars of the cell. Some of the old glint in his eyes sparks as he peers at her unblinkingly. Elizabeth meets his gaze, refusing to be cowed. “Together, we would’ve risen to greatness. You could have been a viscountess.” His lax expression twists into an ugly grimace. “And you abandoned all of it for what—a common blacksmith?”

“If you mean to offend me, sir, you endeavour in vain.” Elizabeth is pleased to find no quaver in her voice; only still, precise clarity. “I do not take umbrage to insults hurled by men locked behind bars.”

“You think you love him?” Quincy continues, heedless of her statement. “You think you’ll be together until death do you part? That man will leave you, Elizabeth. He will take your heart and break it a million times over, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

Elizabeth glances down at her hands. Quincy’s gaze follows hers, and when Elizabeth looks back up, the disbelief written across his face is plainly evident.

“I do not know what the future has in store for us,” Elizabeth begins, “but I do know this: I love Will Turner, and he loves me. What we have…I would live all the suffering and heartbreak in the world if it means I'd be with him. And I would rather be a happy woman than a noble one.”

“Then you are a fool,” Quincy whispers.

“A happy one, nevertheless.” Elizabeth rises like a queen from her throne, hands clasped elegantly over her midriff. “Goodbye, Oliver Quincy. I don’t expect we’ll ever meet again.” With that, Elizabeth turns and walks out of the prison. She doesn’t look back.

Oliver Quincy, however, remains pressed against the cell gate, staring after Elizabeth long after she’s gone. A single image is seared into his mind, and he’s sure it will endure to his dying days:

The third finger of Elizabeth’s left hand.

Newly adorned by a simple golden ring.

 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continue on to the next chapter for my afterword.


	5. Afterword

(I started writing this in the notes section but it grew much too long, so I elected to make it a chapter instead. Skip at your own discretion.) 

              Full disclosure: When I started writing this sucker back in early July of 2018, I had no idea it was going to snowball into a 26k-word project. Originally, it'd been intended to be gifted to a group of friends who'd requested a piece featuring two h/c prompts:

  * Stumbling or otherwise walking ungracefully
  * Tensing against pain



            Hopefully I did them justice.

            As hard as it may be to believe, I tried quite hard to maintain some semblance of historical accuracy in this fic. However, considering that the franchise by which it's inspired is nowhere near historically accurate, I cannot claim this story is even 80% correct in any aspect. There are a few details, however, that I feel might need some explanation.

            You might've noticed several characters, particularly the ones hailing from England, maligning their king with very specific invectives. Well, according to the Pirates of the Caribbean wiki, the first film is set during 1728. The reigning monarch of England at this time was King George II—the father of the man who imposed a series of taxes on a certain group of colonies who, in an act of rebellion, declared their independence from Great Britain in 1776. Anyway, King George II wasn't the most popular king to ever grace the English throne. He was known mainly for his mistresses (hence, the celibacy joke) and for not being of English birth, as he was of the renown Hanover line (thus the degradation of Germany). According to Wikipedia (a wholly reliable source of information, I know) George II was born and raised in Germany, ascended the English throne in 1727, and remained sovereign there until 1760. 

           Another detail I added was the occasional mention of justaucorps (pronounced zhoo-stuh-kawr according to [dictionary.com](https://www.dictionary.com/browse/justaucorps)). From my limited research, I believe justaucorps was just fancy French name for a coat worn with breeches and a waistcoat.

           Believe it or not, [coffeehouses](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_coffeehouses_in_the_17th_and_18th_centuries#Popular_period) did exist during the 18th century, although they weren't typically places women habituated due to their nature as establishments intended for discussion of male-coded topics, such as politics.

           Another establishment mentioned was [Fleet Prison](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fleet_Prison)—colloquially known as the Fleet. This prison—so named because of its location alongside the River Fleet—was notorious for accommodating debtors. Here's a little fun fact for you: According to ushistory.org, William Penn, founder of Pennsylvania—was incarcerated at the Fleet Prison because of his debts.

           And last but not yet least, the swords. My knowledge of swords and their application is sketchy at best—thus the inferior quality of the fencing scenes—but I did have the intelligence to research dueling (alternatively spelled duelling in this story). The [Code Duello](https://www.sos.mo.gov/CMSImages/MDH/CodeDuello.pdf) was a helpful resource to me (it turns out there were twenty-six duel commandments, not just ten), as well as the the films _Rob Roy_ (1985) dir. Michael Caton-Jones and the _Duellists_ (1977) dir. Ridley Scott.

           And now, on to the shoutouts!

           First, I'd like to thank the Fish Mafia, and specifically the Maloney sisters, for offering up such a wonderfully valuable set of prompts that a 5k-word oneshot burgeoned into a 26k-word novella. And the rest of the Fish Mafia, for supporting my every writing endeavour no matter how obnoxious and needy I may be. 

           Thanks to tumblr’s [mademoiselleink](https://mademoiselleink.tumblr.com/) for helping me with the French in this story. If it weren't for you, I'm sure French-speakers everywhere would've been thoroughly offended.

           Thanks to [Wordsmith316](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsmith316), to whom this work is gifted. Her covers are gorgeous and her writing is even more so.

           Thanks to Jenny, for pointing out how ridiculous _Optimus_ would sound as the name of a ship, especially when considering the slew of  _Transformers_  movies it brings to mind.

           And thanks to each and every one of my readers, both online and not. Your love and support are what fuel my validation-craving goblin brain. I look forward to sharing a library's worth of projects with you in the future. Also, I very much welcome feedback on my stories, so if you have something to say, comment below and I will probably love you forever.

           Until next time, guys!

Your obedient servant,

Em


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